


Ad Interim

by emwebb17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Closeted Character, F/F, M/M, brief semi-graphic violence, minor PTSD, switch Dean/Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 89,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6282988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emwebb17/pseuds/emwebb17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is invited to study at the prestigious International Academy of Art and is one of the very select few who is told about the real power of Art: people and events can be influenced by the stroke of a paintbrush.  As Castiel learns more about this power, he realizes he can do a lot more than what he's being taught in the classroom.  Maybe even interact with the beautiful, expressive subject of his favorite four hundred year old painting.</p>
<p>
  <img/>
</p>
<p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I: The International Academy of Art

**Author's Note:**

> I was extremely lucky to get [Aceriee's](http://missaceriee.tumblr.com/) art piece she made for the Destiel Reverse Bang.  This is the piece that inspired this story:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> She is not only an amazing artist, but an amazing and generous person as she made several other pieces for this work, which you can see as you read or you can find them on the [AO3 master art post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6314566), on her [tumblr](http://missaceriee.tumblr.com/tagged/adinterimart), or her [livejournal](http://aceriee.livejournal.com).  (There are spoilers in the art!)
> 
> This work, in addition to being inspired by Aceiree's stupendous art, borrows concepts from _The Golden Key_ by Kate Elliott, Melanie Rawn, and Jennifer Roberson.
> 
> Thank you to the mods of the Destiel Reverse bang--I love this challenge.
> 
> Finally a huge thank you to my betas, [Dinkydog](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Dinkydog/profile) and [Mittensmorgul](http://mittensmorgul.tumblr.com/); you guys are a life saver. ^_^

The bullet train sliced through the vibrant countryside at over two hundred miles per hour. On the left side of the train, flooded rice paddies were dotted with bright specks that Castiel assumed were harvesters. On the right were endless rolling plains of wheat that shifted from dark brown to golden waves with the wind. Seeing the two grains that required different climates and matured in different seasons ripe at the same time reminded Castiel that he was traveling in between the famous Colt Greenhouses. The domes were so tall and so wide that it was easy to forget that it wasn’t just empty air.

Castiel had seen them once before, years ago when his family had taken a vacation to the country’s capitol, Caelus. The city was larger than some of the countries on the distant eastern continent, and it took a very large contingent to keep the tens of millions of citizens fed and clothed. Castiel came from a small fishing town along the southern coast of Occimundi, far removed from the overcrowding and heteronomy that most of the country experienced after expanding its borders from coast to coast across the western continent a couple centuries before.

Castiel was the very cliché of a coastal bumpkin, plucked from his backwater home for his “once in a generation” talent and brought to the modern metropolis where he could be properly educated and cultivated. He chuckled to himself and scrolled through the orientation information on his tablet. He had seen “The Real House Spouses of Caelus;” he was pretty certain he could navigate the cultural differences despite them all being citizens of the same country.

His finger hesitated mid-swipe when a picture of Master Campbell appeared as one of the orientation guides that would be greeting the incoming students. Castiel was frozen, his jaw slack, finger hovering over the screen. Master Campbell. He wasn’t just one of the ten currently living people awarded the title of Master, he was unarguably the most talented artist to ever pick up a brush in generations. He was even more talented than Head Master Shurley himself. And he was going to waste his precious time on a bunch of green wannabes. Granted, Castiel and his fellow “green wannabes” were all established artists and most had been creating art since they could hold a crayon in their chubby, toddler fingers. However, no amount of national recognition and prestigious awards won could justify Master Campbell taking an interest in them. Maybe he was being forced to do it as part of the job of being a professor at the International Academy of Art.

Castiel looked at the picture of the young Master. He was only in his early forties and was the first person to be awarded the title of Master before the age of forty in decades. Heck, maybe centuries. He definitely didn’t look like his stuffy contemporaries. He was youth and strength and humor as his lips were set in a teasing smirk. His eyes were a clear hazel and his hair a glossy, chestnut brown. He was an attractive man—not that Castiel was going to focus on something so superficial. Castiel’s eyes fell to where the Master’s shirt pulled tightly across his muscled shoulders. Well. He wasn’t going to _focus_ on it.

The train banked hard to the right, but the maglev system made everything so smooth Castiel only noticed it because the rice fields began to fall away. He pressed his face against the glass so that he could see Caelus as soon as it came into view.

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the sprawling city shimmering brightly across the entire horizon. He thought he had exaggerated his childhood memory of the grandeur of the place; apparently it had actually faded.

Caelus was a series of uneven concentric circles easily covering one hundred square miles. It was completely possible for someone to live their entire life and never leave the quadrant they were born in. Most of the residential buildings making up the outer ring were constructed from bricks made of the red clay native to the area. The industrial sector was built from dark grey iron and pale grey concrete and was the largest circle. The skyscrapers were great glass monoliths scattered haphazardly among miles and miles of elevated train tracks. In the center, surrounded by a large grassy park, were the buildings constructed when the city had been founded almost a thousand years ago. They were made from Venatorra marble, but Castiel was still too far away to see the delicate, pale green coloring.

He’d only ever seen the city center—nicknamed Viridis City—in pictures and on TV. He hadn’t been able to see it as a child because touring tickets to the city center were expensive and hard to come by. He would see it today though, up close and in person. The International Academy of Art was in the oldest and grandest of the buildings as even a millennium ago people had known that art was tantamount to government.

Hit with a sudden onslaught of nerves, Castiel sat back in his seat. He inhaled deeply and let it out slowly. Only about twenty-five percent of those accepted to the prestigious school didn’t flame out after the first year. Being an artist was the biggest responsibility that could be bestowed upon a citizen. They made order and kept the peace. They were responsible for the prosperity of Occimundi, which was something that had always mystified Castiel a bit. He had studied art all his life and understood quite poignantly how it could move a person to feel the depths and extremes of many emotions, but he couldn’t quite see how that feeling could keep a national population of millions in line. He felt a bit treasonous and ignorant for not having faith in the system, but he’d been drawing his older brother falling into mud puddles and stepping in dog poo for years and yet Gabriel remained glaringly graceful.

His tablet screen had dimmed, but the handsome face of Master Campbell still smirked at him from the seventh page of the orientation packet. His stomach twisted even more. He quickly searched through the documents on his tablet until he found his invitation letter. No one applied to the Academy. Scouts were sent from the school to examine the talents that had been selected for display at galleries all over the country. If they found someone who they felt had an exceptional talent, they were invited to study at the Academy. International students had only one chance to get an invite; they had to be selected to have their work shown at the National Art Gallery—and then get scouted.

Castiel was glad his letter had been delivered electronically because he’d read it so many times he was certain that if it had been made of paper it would be pulp by now. It was perfunctory and straight to the point:

_Mister Castiel Novak. Your skill and perception of art has been deemed to be of sufficient caliber that the Scouting Committee would like to extend to you an invitation to attend the International School of Art at the start of the summer term. Please reply with your acceptance or declination within seven days._

Castiel tapped the screen to enlarge the words “sufficient caliber." He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he hoped to all the Muses in Heaven that he wouldn’t disappoint the instructors and shame his family. His family had never put much pressure on him when it came to being successful. After all, not knocking someone up before he was eighteen was pretty successful in his family. Then again, he’d probably only not had that problem because the people he slept with couldn’t get pregnant. Even still, out of nine children, Castiel was the only one who hadn’t given his parents a grandchild. It really wasn’t due to his siblings being irresponsible, Castiel supposed, it was just boredom.

The train banked again and the city fell out of view. Castiel tightened his grip on the armrest of his seat. He was actually missing the boredom of his hometown at the moment. Too much excitement tended to disagree with his constitution. But he couldn’t deny that he was excited. He was truly on his own for the first time in his life. Twenty-seven years old and hell bent on proving he deserved the recognition of the Academy. One day he would be known as one of the great Masters of his generation. As long as he didn’t get homesick and run home after a week.

Castiel chuckled and turned off his tablet. He put away his belongings as the high speed train began to decelerate as it approached the city. He wondered if his family and friends had a pool going for how long it would take for him to come running back home. He didn’t begrudge them for having thoughts like that—he’d never made it more than a week at summer camp when he’d been a child—but this was the opportunity of a lifetime. This was his dream. This was his life.

~~~

This was a nightmare.

Castiel looked at the boys and girls around him. Not one of them could be out of their teens yet. Not for the first time he wondered if maybe he’d fallen in with the wrong group at the train station, but the bus was making the turn onto the wide thoroughfare that led to Viridis City. In an effort to preserve the original structures, no rail tracks had been allowed to be built to service the city center. People came and went on foot or by bus only. Although Cas had heard that there were tour packages that involved horseback riding or canoeing down the Bibilis River, which the original Caelus had been built upon. The once great river was now carefully controlled via levees and canals and had even been redirected when the industrial circle needed more space to expand an electronics factory.

The bus began to rattle loudly as the perfectly smooth streets of concrete gave way to an uneven, narrow brick road. The students and their luggage were jostled so violently that by the time the bus screeched to a halt hardly anyone was in the same seat they had started in. Several people were in a mild panic about the condition of their art supplies. Castiel was less concerned because for a going away present his family had bought him a very expensive and well-made travel case for his supplies. The orientation packets had told them that supplies would be made available for them depending on their course selection, but Castiel had still packed his own brushes, pencils, chalks, pastels, erasers, smoothing cloths, a scraper, an edger, sketchpads, and a few mixed colors in oil paint he had blended himself. He had a feeling he would be told not to use any of his inferior supplies, but if they had been good enough to produce works of “sufficient caliber” for the Academy, surely they couldn’t be too bad.

The group of fifteen students debussed and stood on the dull red bricks, looking a bit shell-shocked. Some of them were probably just sleep deprived. They had come from all over the country, and three had come from overseas. They had all been scheduled to arrive at the train station within two hours of each other. Castiel had been lucky that his train arrived with only fifteen minutes to wait for the international students to be shuttled over from the airport. His trip had only taken five hours, so he’d been able to get up at a decent hour and still felt refreshed. Some had had sixteen hour train rides, and only the Muses knew how long the international students had been traveling.

The driver barked at them to get their suitcases from the compartment under the bus and everyone stumbled over each other to comply as quickly as possible. Castiel hung back and let the others scramble around. His bag was pulled out and set aside as a kid—no more than fourteen—crawled into the compartment to pull out the bags from the back. Castiel took his suitcase by the handle and kept an arm around his supply case even though it was bulky and difficult to hold in that manner. Soon the bus was empty and the driver took off, leaving the students unattended in front of the great International Academy of Art.

As one the group seemed to feel the pull of the looming building and they all looked up, and then tilted their heads more as they tried to see the top of the building. It was gigantic. Not a skyscraper by any means, but several stories tall and made of humongous slabs of pale green marble. A thousand years ago people hadn’t had machinery or modern tools, but here the city center stood—a mystery of ancient engineering.

The buildings of Viridis City were one of the great marvels of the world, rivaled only by the completely subterranean cities built by the earliest Tartarus people to hide from the Viridoctrins. The art made by the ancient Tartarese was dark and disturbing and violent—and one of Castiel’s favorite movements. Many other countries tried to copy the style, but no one could quite capture the cruelty and desperation of the originals. Castiel hoped he’d be able to have more in depth instruction in the Tartarese style. Even the modern movements were more interesting than the obsession with pointillism prevalent in Vacivo.

“Children.”

The group whirled as one, a couple losing their balance and stumbling over the strewn luggage, and saw a short, elderly man with a warm smile. He wore the dark blue robes of a Master Artist, and around his neck hung a sash of pure white. As each individual took note of the sash, the students bowed sharply, creating a ripple of motion in the group.

Castiel was bent nearly at ninety degrees with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. That was him. That was Head Master Shurley. The most revered Master Artist alive. And he was five feet away. He’d also referred to the group as “children,” which did miff Castiel a bit.

“That’s enough of that,” Master Shurley said kindly. “Up. Let me see your faces.”

Everyone straightened slowly, like they weren’t sure they really were allowed to look at the living legend. The man took his time looking each new student in the face.

“I see a lot of potential here. You all must be tired from your travels. Let’s go inside and meet up with your assigned Apprentice. They will be your mentor for the duration of your tenure at the Academy. This person will not only be there for you artistically, but personally as well. Consider this person your friend as well as your teacher. After you meet up with your mentor, you will be shown to your dorm room and then you will convene for a meal—which is probably breakfast for some and dinner for others.”

There was a smattering of polite laughter.

“Then, Master Campbell will take you on a tour of the galleries.”

The noise made by the group then could only be described as tittering. It embarrassed Castiel slightly, but he was sure if he’d had anyone to talk to he would have done the same.

“Yes, yes,” Master Shurley said waving a hand. “ _The_ Master Campbell. He’s every bit as handsome and dashing as you imagine. With no small amount of narcissism to accompany it. But don’t be put off by it. All Masters are a bit narcissistic. After all, how can you be one of the greatest artists to ever live if you don’t believe you are one of the greatest artists to ever live?”

The group was confusedly silent, not sure how to take that little speech. Master Shurley didn’t wait for their reactions though as he was already walking up the twelve wide steps to the tall double doors that led into the Academy. Twelve steps: one for each muse. Castiel named them as he walked up the stairs.

_Linea, the first stroke._

_Forma, shape and form._

_Umbra, shading and shadow._

_Nuda, negative space._

_Mensura, depth and perspective._

_Pigmenta, color and tint._

_Pinga, draw and paint._

_Sculpa, sculpt and model._

_Fora, from the external._

_Menta, from the mind._

_Cora, from the heart._

_Anima, from the soul._

Castiel shot a quick prayer up to them collectively as he reached the top. He was one of only two students to notice the small, shallow thirteenth stair right at the door. Everyone tripped over it except him and a student from the far north of Occimundi if her pale skin and red hair was any indication. Castiel stepped on the thirteenth stair and said her name too.

_Aporia, confusion and doubt._

She had visited him enough over the course of his art career that he felt he must be a personal favorite of hers. He made a mental note to make a proper offering to her before the week was out.

Inside the main entrance to the Academy was a large hall with a towering ceiling. Balconies on several floors above them lined the walls. A few people moved on them as they went about their business, but all the noise and excitement was coming from a group of Apprentices (Castiel could tell they were apprentices due to the pale blue color of their robes) who were talking loudly over each other and swapping around white cards. Master Shurley didn’t try to get their attention; he just waited until they noticed him and the group. When they did, they only got louder.

Each Apprentice held up a card with a name on it and advanced on the group of students, looking for their charge. In a few short, confusing moments the students were scattered in all directions as their mentors led them from the main hall. Castiel was left standing alone with his suitcase and an arm quickly growing sore from awkwardly holding his supply case. Master Shurley smiled at him.

“I apologize, Mr. Novak. Your mentor won’t be able to join us until later. If you don’t mind, I can escort you to your dorm room.”

Castiel nodded and his mouth went dry. He was going to have one on one time with Head Master Shurley. Of course, the great man was just going to walk him down a couple of hallways, but if Castiel was smart he could use this time to learn something. After two minutes of walking in awkward silence, Castiel was screaming internally at his own lameness.

“Castiel,” Master Shurley finally broke the silence. “May I call you Castiel?”

Castiel nodded dumbly again. He usually went by Cas (only his parents called him Castiel), but he was still reeling from the fact that Master Shurley knew his name. Seemed to know his whole name without having a card like the Apprentices had had. Which meant that Master Shurley recognized him.

“I’m sure you’ve noticed that you’re a little bit older than most of the other students in your class.”

Castiel nodded yet again. He must seem incredibly slow to the art Master.

“You were actually scouted back when you were thirteen years old.”

“W-what?” his cotton mouth managed to gasp out.

“Oh, yes. Your painting entitled _Black Swells_ ; it was of the ocean walls near Maritima. I believe you did it in the style of the Tartarus Dark Ages. Very gloomy.”

Castiel was feeling lightheaded. The Academy had known about him for over a decade, the Head Master of Art knew one of his paintings by name. The whole moment was surreal.

“I-I…”

“Oh, it’s not an insult. It’s difficult to paint in that style without appearing a little gloomy.”

Castiel had intended for it to feel menacing; he was such a failure.

“The Scouts back then wanted to bring you on right away. You would have been one of the youngest students ever invited to attend the Academy.”

Castiel thought he might feel resentment at being denied that honor, but all he could focus on was the curiosity of _why_ he hadn’t been invited then.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Master Shurley said. “I—oh, pardon me.”

The man reached a hand inside his robe and scratched at his chest. Then he manipulated something on the inner lining, and the robe parted down the middle to swing free. Underneath the Master wore nothing but a white tank top and a pair of blue and orange boxer shorts.

“Shwoo. These robes can be so itchy. We really ought to change the material. Anyway, up these stairs.”

Castiel was startled out of his trance induced by Master Shurley’s skinny, white chicken legs. He followed the man up a set of stairs that had been carved into the marble wall itself. A railing had been hewn from the same rock, which meant the stairs were essentially a tunnel carved into solid marble stone. It must have taken decades to complete.

“Uh, what were we talking about?” Master Shurley asked.

“Oh. Um. I was scouted at thirteen.”

“Ah, yes. _Black Swells_. After the scouts find talent, they show it to the Order of Masters, and in order to be given an invitation, the artists must be agreed upon in a unanimous vote. Your vote was not unanimous. Not because anyone thought you lacked the skill, but because one of us saw in you the potential to become a Master. In cases like that, we prefer to let the artist grow unfettered by the influence of the Academy. We’ve been following your work for years. We could have brought you on two or three years ago. Hell, I was convinced five years ago, but your mentor wanted to see if you would finally break free of imitating Masters and create your own style.”

Castiel had been looking at the stairs as they climbed, red faced from embarrassment and the effort it was taking to keep pace with the Head Master. At the last comment, Castiel looked up and realized they had reached a landing. Master Shurley was smiling at him enigmatically.

“Tell me, Castiel, do you think we got tired of waiting and decided you were good enough to be a student, or did you break free of the chains of imitation and we decided you should be one of us?”

Castiel was not in the right state of mind to be having this conversation. He was flustered and a little sweaty and how on earth was he supposed to just come out and say that yes he thought he had his own style and was worthy of training to become a Master? Then he remembered Master Shurley's comment about narcissism and the artist.

“I think…” Castiel swallowed. “I think you’ve brought me here to train to be a Master.”

Master Shurley smiled, raised a finger to tap Castiel’s nose, and made a “boop” noise.

That one act discombobulated Castiel more than anything else.

“Right here,” Master Shurley said, and walked a few steps away from the stairs to a pink wooden door that looked a little like diluted blood next to the green marble walls. He opened the door and led them into Castiel’s dorm room. A thick shaggy carpet covered the small room, and the double bed was piled high with furry blankets and a down feather stuffed duvet.

“It gets quite cold in the building, even in the summer. Because of the marble. We do what we can to mitigate the chill, but feel free to ask for a heating unit if you need it.”

Besides the bed, there was a chest of drawers, a desk and chair, an easel and stool, and a cushioned bench underneath a narrow window. The walls were bare except for the random swirling pattern of the marble.

“Another inconvenience is that our ancient architects clearly hadn’t the imagination for electricity. So, we’ve had to run power strips along the floor for your computer and the lamps. They’re tucked under the carpet to prevent you from stumbling over them, but take care not to get the carpet caught in the plugs. We’ve have issues with fires.”

Castiel’s eyes went wide at the thought of waking up to the sight of the furry carpet flaming toward him like a hungry monster.

“Oh, don’t worry. We’ve taken precautions to reduce the risk of fires, but it’s always best to be cautious. Just in case.”

Castiel nodded.

“Unfortunately I can’t leave you be to get settled in at the moment. You’ll have time for that after the tour. You have a private bath, right through there,” Master Shurley indicated a door Castiel hadn’t noticed before. “You have an upgraded dorm because you’re on the Master track, but if you don’t want to share that information with your class just yet, you can tell them it’s due to seniority.”

Master Shurley gave him a wink and Castiel felt even older.

“Do you need to use it?” Master Shurley asked.

“Use what?”

“The bathroom?”

Castiel looked dumbly at the door. Head Master Charles Shurley was asking him if he needed to pee. He shook his head.

“I went at the train station.”

“Excellent. Let’s go to lunch then. I’ll tell you now, Castiel, even if you hate it here and want to stab all your teachers in the arm pit, it’s worth sticking around for the food.”

Castiel followed the man into the hallway and back toward the stairs. He wasn’t sure if Master Shurley was just making a joke or warning him that studying at the Academy was going to be a Trial of the Muses. Not even they had passed those trials; how was he to succeed where the great Muses had failed?

Fortunately Master Shurley and the Apprentices left the students alone to bond over lunch. The group was sat at one long table in a fairly small room, but as promised, the food was excellent. The first course was a butter lettuce and brussels sprout salad dressed with honey vinaigrette followed by a cold cantaloupe based gazpacho served with cheese toast. The main course consisted of the tenderest lamb Castiel had ever eaten along with braised kale and a potato and mushroom hash. Then they were given platters with a selection of goat, sheep, and cow cheeses made locally at the Caelus farms. Finally they were served mango sticky rice with a slightly sweetened sparkling water. If this was what all their meals were going to be like, Master Shurley was right: it was worth staying for the food alone.

Fortunately, the company might also turn out to be worth sticking around for. Castiel found himself sitting at the end of the table across from a young boy from Viridoctrin who barely spoke Loquella (but what he could get out had that sweet, lilting Viridoctrin accent) and the redhead who had also noticed Aporia’s stair when they had arrived. She sat next to him and spoke in an unending nervous chatter about how she very nearly missed her opportunity to attend the Academy because her invite had been routed to her spam folder. She was exceedingly friendly, but her three minute story stretched into nearly twenty minutes as she kept getting distracted by tangents.

“Oh, Muses, I’m sorry. I’m boring you to death, aren’t I?” she asked, mopping up mango sauce with a large clump of rice.

Castiel shook his head. “Quite the contrary; I’ve never been to Frigiterra. It’s interesting to hear about your customs up there. And your hometown sounds beautiful. We don’t have that many trees on the coast. At least, not ones like you’re describing.”

“Tell me about your home.”

“Oh. Well…Um. Actually, first, can I ask you for your name?”

The girl put a hand to her face which was turning a delicate shade of pink. “Aporia curse me. I’ve been rambling to you this long and I never even introduced myself.” She moved her hand from her face and stuck it out toward Cas. “Celeste Middleton. Nice to meet you.”

“Castiel.” Cas shook her hand and grinned. “Celeste. That’s not a name you hear often anymore.”

Celeste rolled her eyes. “Tell me about it. My parents may as well have named me Muse. Anyway, I go by Charlie. I just didn’t know how formal things are supposed to be here.”

“I would assume among friends we can be familiar. I go by Cas.”

The girl smiled brightly and punched him on the arm. “We just became friends,” she proclaimed.

Cas rubbed the tender spot on his arm. “Yeah…I guess we did.”

“So, what medium is your specialty?” Celeste—no, Charlie—asked. “Are we going to be friends and rivals or just friends?”

“Oils,” Castiel replied. “Really painting of any kind, but I feel most comfortable working with oils. And I think my best pieces have been those I’ve done in oil.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I work best with digital art. Not just manipulations, though I’m awesome at that too, but digital painting. I don’t get it, like give me an electronic tablet and stylus and I can create photo realistic images with no problem. But give me a paintbrush and canvas and I’m making stuff like Zacaria,” she referenced the famous abstract painter. “Only, like not in a good way.”

Castiel smiled. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating if you were invited here.”

“No. I just told them I was doing it in the Zacarian style.”

He laughed at her devious eyebrow waggle. “Clever. But, it’s not really surprising you feel more comfortable with digital mediums. Most kids these days grow up on tablets instead of canvas.”

Charlie tsked at him. “Don’t give me the ‘kids these days’ speech. I’m not like these babies over here,” she indicated the rest of the table.

“Oh, does being almost twenty make you feel a generation away from the kiddies?”

“Dude. I’m twenty-three.”

Castiel blinked startled eyes at her. “You look fifteen.”

She sighed. “I know. It’s a curse! But, don’t forget I’m almost as old as you are, pal.”

Cas smiled and wagged a finger at her. “Not quite. I’m twenty-seven. You should show me the proper deference.”

“Eat me, old man.”

Castiel laughed loudly and Charlie joined in by giggling hysterically. They drew the attention of the people near them, but they didn’t share what was so funny. The Viridoctrin boy was looking at them with a small smile on his face. He clearly didn’t understand a word of their conversation, but he seemed comforted to see people being friendly.

“What’s your name?” Charlie asked the boy.

The kid picked up on the word “name” and patted his chest proudly. “Henry.”

“Hi, Henry. I’m Charlie, and this is Cas.”

Henry smiled and ducked his head shyly. Unlike Charlie, Cas was pretty certain the boy looked fourteen because he _was_ fourteen. He had dark hair and dark eyes and just a smattering of freckles across his nose. He was a cute boy, and in a few years would probably be a devastatingly handsome heartbreaker.

“Children.”

The group casually turned to look at the person who addressed them. Then conversation abruptly cut off. Some tried to bow in their seats and some tried to stand and hit their thighs on the table. Cas was one of the latter and refrained from rubbing his sore legs as he bowed to Master Campbell.

The tone in the room was completely different from when Master Shurley had addressed them. Everyone was anxious and ill at ease. Master Campbell’s presence was almost stifling, possibly because he much taller than Castiel had expected. They could feel him looking down at them, his eyes slowly moving over them, assessing them—appraising them like a piece of art.

“Relax,” the Master said.

Everyone peeked a cautious eye up the man. He was smiling at them and the tension in the room eased.

“Welcome to the Academy. At least a quarter of you are going to do adequately.”

The students glanced nervously amongst themselves.

“I assume you’re done with lunch,” Master Campbell continued and the group nodded compliance.

“Excellent. Follow me.”

Everyone scrambled out of their chairs, wiping their faces and clothing to make sure they were free of smudges and crumbs. Master Campbell was already off at a brisk walk and disappearing through the exit. Castiel trotted to maintain pace and some of the others were practically jogging.

“I’m not going to give you a tour of the campus. That’s what Apprentices and maps are for. I’m going to walk you through the Academy’s galleries. First we’ll pass through the Students’ Wing. This is where unusually exceptional art created by students from generations past is collected. There’s no need to make more than a passing glance; the work may be exceptional by student standards, but it’s not _real_ art.”

Master Campbell made a sudden left turn and the group had to skid to a stop and hop out of each other’s way to continue to follow the man down a wide corridor.

“Next we’ll pass through the sculpture garden. For those of you unusually interested in or specializing in 3D art, feel free to stay behind and tour it to your heart’s content. You’re not worth any more effort and will probably fail out in the first couple of weeks.”

Master Campbell pushed through a large blue door and led them outside to a breathtakingly beautiful courtyard. Colorful summer perennials were in full bloom and despite the muggy heat the grass was an effervescent green. They saw Master Campbell nearly across the courtyard, still talking, and had to run down the stone paths painstakingly inlaid a single, small tile at a time in a stunning mosaic of white and grey and silver.

“—will be the art made by those who have been bestowed the title of Master. We have nearly thirty generations of Master artists represented in that gallery. Some of them actually deserved the title.”

Master Campbell used a card key to unlock another blue door and held it open for the students to clamber through. Then he led them down a dimly lit hallway with walls draped in dark, heavy fabric.

“Next will be the Art wing. That’s Art with a capital A. These are the works that are used to govern Occimundi, and to some extent, the world. All old ones, of course. The current Art Treaties are stored in the vaults for protection. That will be the room where you’ll really want to take your time as only the true Masters of Art have their work displayed here.”

Master Campbell came to an abrupt halt and everyone piled up against each other to keep from walking into the intimidating man.

“Finally we’ll pass through the Hall of Portraits. Here you will see some of the most beautiful works of art ever produced by our species. Not all were made by Masters, but all are of a quality superior to anything any of you will ever produce. Maybe. I’ll need to evaluate each of you closely before I determine that my prediction is right. In the Hall of Portraits I suggest you take a good look around. Part of your first year final is to select a portrait and replicate it.”

The group gasped softly.

“No matter what you do the rest of the year, that test will determine whether you’re invited to attend for a second year or asked to return home.”

Everyone gulped nervously.

“Let’s begin the tour. Remember, you can mostly ignore these first two rooms.”

The moment Castiel stepped into the first gallery, his jaw hit the floor. The building was massive with high ceilings capable of accommodating twenty foot tall paintings. Panels were placed liberally throughout the large chamber to allow for more wall space. The paintings were clustered so tightly together it was impossible to determine the wall color. And yet, even with so many paintings—oils and watercolors and pastels and acrylics and even pencil and charcoal drawings—they were all of such high quality. Castiel had been to a couple of galleries before where there might be one or two special pieces on display, but typically most of the other art was good, exceptional for the public, but paled in comparison to Master level works of art. The students who had earned a spot in this gallery most definitely deserved it.

The group fanned out in the maze of panels and art, barely making it more than ten or twenty feet into the room before they were being told to hurry it along from the other side of the room.

“You can come back and peruse the gallery at your leisure on your own time,” Master Campbell called out. “We’re moving on.”

Castiel turned and forced himself to keep his eyes on the ground as he hurried toward the exit so he wouldn’t get distracted. Not everyone made it out into the greenhouse style courtyard before Master Campbell was already marching straight toward the door at the far end. The courtyard was dotted with sculptures and statues done in marble, bronze, limestone, alabaster, terracotta, and several other mediums Castiel couldn’t identify right away. He pulled up short, having lost his breath as he found himself standing in front of _The Rape of Cora_.

The ten foot tall and twenty foot wide sculpture was flawlessly carved out of black marble by Master Uriel in 453 CE. Castiel had seen it in textbooks only. It was enrapturing in person. Anima and Menta flanked the prone, graceful figure of Cora, weeping as their sister was corrupted by the Devil. Two bodiless hands imprisoned Cora’s wrists. The artist who had sculpted the scene, over six hundred years ago, had never confirmed nor denied that the hands belonged to Aporia.

“Quickly, children!”

Castiel shook himself and ran after the disappearing group. He couldn’t believe that Master Campbell had such contempt for 3D art. Maybe it was because he wasn’t very proficient at it and he was just jealous. Castiel was scandalized by his own thought and giggled nervously as he raced inside the next building. He found himself in a room even bigger than the students’ gallery, but with just as many panels creating another maze of masterpieces. These works were respectfully spaced out, however. The lighting was just barely bright enough to illuminate about a five foot radius around where a person stood.

Castiel was overwhelmed as everywhere he turned was a piece of art he had seen in textbooks or on a very rare occasion at a gallery when a piece was sent on a travelling exhibition. He heard a gasp behind him and turned slowly, unable to pull completely away from the sensation that he was dreaming. It was Charlie who had made the noise and she was flapping a listless hand at him. He walked to her side.

“What is it?” he asked, barely daring to whisper.

“It’s a Michamusa.”

Castiel’s mouth went dry as he looked at the small one square foot painting hanging on the wall at about Charlie’s eye level. Michael Augusta—the first person to ever be dubbed a Master artist. He was so revered, he was given the name Michamusa—Michael Touched by the Muses—and people wondered if the Muses had an unknown brother. His attention to background detail was so subtle a person could look at his works for days, weeks, and still not find all the minute intricacies.

The painting Cas and Charlie stood in front of was almost a thousand years old. Despite the lengths gone through to preserve the work, it had darkened significantly over the centuries. Bright detailed versions of it were available in textbooks, so seeing it in person was almost a letdown as the woman that was the subject of the piece was faded and the background colors blended. The two students leaned in as closely as they dared and strained their eyes in the dim light.

“Oh,” Castiel murmured softly. He could see the rushing river in the background. It looked like it was actually freaking moving. “This is…”

“Incredible,” Charlie finished his thought. “Do you see the birds?”

“Do you see the river?”

“Oh,” they sighed together as they turned their attention to what the other had pointed out.

“Moving on, children!”

Castiel stood up straight with a frustrated growl. “Is he serious? It’s been five minutes.”

“I guess we can always come back later,” Charlie said ruefully.

They began to make their way toward the exit, eyes dragging over the masterpieces around them longingly.

“I’ll probably spend my whole time in these galleries just looking and studying,” Castiel said. “I’ll never get any work done.”

“None of us will. Maybe that’s why so many people flunk out. It’s not because their work isn’t good, it’s just because they didn’t produce any work.”

“I’d believe it.”

They were two of the last ones to exit the Masters Gallery and Master Campbell watched them with a playful glitter in his eyes. Castiel blushed and had to look away. The next gallery was down two flights of stairs, but in a very well lit, open room. Castiel was eager to see what real Art looked like, but was soon disappointed that it was not any more impressive than much of the art in the student gallery. Everyone walked around, looking confused, so Castiel felt reassured because he wasn’t the only one.

He stopped in front of a picture of two men signing a treaty in a room full of witnesses. It was well composed and detailed, probably better than what he could currently produce in terms of realism and technique, however…it felt soulless.

“Examine the Art very, very carefully,” Master Campbell told the group. “There is a reason these pieces are considered Art. Probably none of you will be able to recognize what it is about them that makes them different from all other art, which is okay since none of you will probably ever produce real Art.”

Castiel was irked by Master Campbell’s brash declarations. It went beyond narcissism. It was just plain…asshole-ish-ness. Determined to prove him wrong, Castiel stepped closer to the painting.

The label indicated that it was painted in 982—just under a hundred years ago—in Suree, the capitol city of Vacivo. It must be the treaty that ended the Intercontinental War. It was credited to Master Samandriel Alfre. Master Alfre had never been one of Castiel’s favorites, but seeing one of his works up close it was evident he had an inhumanly steady hand. Castiel leaned even closer, trying to find the brushstrokes. Alfre had been known for painting even large works with tiny two millimeter brushes. Castiel blinked rapidly as he thought he saw a word woven into the off white of the document laid out on the table. His eyes jumped around wildly, unable to focus and yet trying desperately to. For a fleeting moment, he saw it: the document wasn’t formed from simple brush strokes; it was the word “peace” written over and over so closely together and overlapping it gave the illusion of a solid sheet of paper. Then Castiel had to close his eyes and shake his head. When he looked again, he couldn’t find the words. He wondered if he had actually seen them at all.

Castiel looked away from the painting and found Master Campbell watching him from across the room. Staring, really. Castiel stared back, unable to break the trance like a mouse before a cobra. Charlie stepped in front of him and he blinked and looked away.

“I don’t really see anything remarkable about these works,” she muttered under her breath. “I mean, yeah, obviously the skill level is way beyond most people, but they feel…hollow.”

“I know what you mean,” Cas replied just as softly. “But I wonder if that means we just aren’t getting it. Maybe it’s over our heads.”

“Maybe,” Charlie said, but she sounded doubtful.

“Did you see any words in any of the paintings?”

“Words? Like, not the label?”

“No, like, if an object is made of a bunch of words instead of brushstrokes.”

Charlie narrowed a single eye as she looked at him. “I don’t understand.”

Castiel sighed. “Yeah, never mind. I think I was just seeing things.”

“Children!”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “I think even if I was fifteen I’d still be annoyed by that.”

“Tell me about it,” Castiel agreed.

The group moved willingly from the Art gallery, everyone clearly disappointed with the blasé work that was somehow responsible for the governance of modern society. They walked back up the stairs and then were led to a long narrow room with thick red carpet. The walls were lined with large portraits placed every two feet, in gilded, ornate frames. They were all roughly the same size, and depicted a life size rendering of their subject. The students were back to being overawed. Castiel felt a sick twisting in his gut. He wasn’t good enough to be here. These portraits were like photographs. The attention to light and shadow was practically innate. He’d never been good at painting light. Umbra was clearly not one of his patron Muses.

“Holy moose,” Charlie whispered softly. “These…make me feel uncomfortably inadequate.”

“I know, right?” one of the older students said from next to them. “I grew up in Caelus, so I’ve had a chance to tour the other galleries before, but this one isn’t open to the public. This is nuts. They expect us to replicate one of these?”

Cas and Charlie paled at the reminder.

“You think we have to do it with real paint?” Charlie asked nervously.

Castiel shrugged a shoulder and the group broke apart to examine the different portraits. After a few minutes of silence from Master Campbell, they figured out they would be allowed to spend more time perusing the paintings. Probably so they could select one for their final project. If Castiel had to guess, they would need to start working on it immediately if they wanted a chance of being done by the end of the year.

Castiel walked down the corridor, his feet completely silent on the plush carpet. His eyes swept from side to side, taking in scenes from ages long past, foreign countries that no longer existed, and people who had been dead for longer than the Novaks could trace their family tree back in Maritima. He was overwhelmed with the sheer number of portraits to choose from. How could he ever pick one? He’d have to do it at random. He stopped walking and faced the nearest portrait. It was of a young woman with a wolfhound sitting obediently at her side. This would do. It might be good to practice painting something like fur…

Castiel’s eyes were drawn like magnets to the painting hanging next to the woman and the dog. He moved like a puppet pulled by his strings until he was standing in front of the portrait of an officer in dress uniform. He didn’t recognize the era or country from the clothing, so he managed to get his eyes to drop to the placard underneath the painting.

_The Viridoctrin General; General Dean Winchester, Commander of the Royal Viridoctrin Armies, 659 of the Common Era, Master Damian Lucifer._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ _

Castiel’s eyes widened. Master Lucifer was, debatably, the greatest Master Artist who ever lived. He looked back up at the painting, trying to focus on brushstroke, color selection, composition, technique, anything…but all he could see was a stoic face with sorrowful green eyes. Just looking into them almost made Castiel’s heart break. Master Lucifer’s skill was unparalleled.

And yet…Castiel couldn’t help but feel that the emotion he was getting wasn’t from the artist, but directly from the subject. He was a handsome man; actually, more beautiful than handsome. He stood in a typical pose for portraits from that era, but he looked almost forced into it, like the formality and decorous nature of the position was unnatural for him. Despite his clean shaven jaw and tight haircut, he looked like a man who was more comfortable outdoors than cooped up in a war room. The tan of his skin against the navy uniform with yellow trimmings furthered Castiel’s confidence in his assessment. The general’s grip on the ceremonial sword was slightly awkward; clearly this was a man who knew how to use a real weapon. Castiel’s eyes traveled up the length of the portrait and again settled on the man’s eyes. Here he found fault with the work of Master Lucifer. Clearly the man had taken poetic license because no human had eyes that clear and bright a green. Even if the hue was unrealistic, the eyes were still mesmerizing and filled Castiel with such melancholy he was afraid he might start crying right in the middle of the Hall of Portraits.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a voice asked to his right, but Castiel couldn’t pull his eyes away from the painting. “Truly masterful work. I especially admire how the firelight from the lamp plays off the small fray on the trim of his left cuff.”

“Uh-w-what?” Castiel’s eyes flicked down to the cuff, but then returned to the face. “I admit I haven’t really looked at the painting itself yet, I’m still entranced by the subject. I mean, look at that face…it’s perfectly symmetrical. It’s…it’s an artist’s wet dream.”

The person chuckled. “Also just the regular kind of wet dream too, hmm?”

“Well, yeah,” Cas admitted with a huff of laughter. “If it were possible for me to step into that painting I would—ahh!”

Castiel swallowed a screech as he finally turned his head and realized he was talking to Master Campbell. The man smiled indulgently.

“Is this the portrait you’ve selected for your first year final project?”

“Uh, well, I haven’t had a chance to look around much yet.” _But, yes, him. I want him._ Castiel blushed at his own thought and hoped it wasn’t visible on his face.

“It _would_ be quite brazen to take on Master Lucifer,” Master Campbell said blithely. “I suppose it would be best to choose something else.”

“No.” Castiel realized he was being baited and didn’t care. “I like this one. I think I’ll do this one. If you aim high you keep your eyes off the ground.”

“You’re also more apt to fall short.”

“I’d rather fall short aiming for greatness than to master mediocrity.”

Master Campbell’s smile turned into something more genuine. “I knew I was right in selecting you. I could see you in your brushstrokes and your composition. In your style selection. I think it will be a pleasure to mentor you.”

Castiel was feeling such an odd sensation of embarrassment and euphoria at being praised by the Master that he almost didn’t process that last bit.

“M-mentor?”

“Yes. I apologize for not being available to meet with your earlier and show you to your room, but I will be guiding your education here at the Academy.”

Castiel tried to force his jaw to do something other than flap, but it was bound and determined to make him look like a dribbling imbecile. Master Campbell put a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and turned him so that they faced away from the painting as they walked by it.

“Don’t let me intimidate you, Castiel. All the great Masters were novices once. Not a one of us painted a masterpiece the first or even hundredth time we picked up a brush. Well, maybe Lucifer. But then, legend has it that he made a deal with the Devil.”

He gave him a wink and amazingly, Castiel did feel a little better. The Master patted his shoulder and then stepped away to observe another student. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Charlie and a few other students, including Henry, shuffle closer to him.

“What were you talking about?” Charlie asked.

“Uh, just about the portrait I’ve selected for my project.”

The group murmured softly, clearly placated by this response. Then Castiel reasoned that he better drop the bomb now rather than make it seem like he was snobbishly hiding it.

“Also…he said that he’s going to be my mentor.”

“What?!”

The voice echoed around the chamber and everyone turned to look at their small group. The student who had made the exclamation was shrinking behind another one who was not nearly big enough to hide him.

“Well, since you’re all gathering and gossiping, you must be done in here,” Master Campbell said eyeing the group with displeasure. “We’re leaving.”

The other students shot the small group death glares and a few in the group gave Castiel the stink eye—like he had _asked_ for Master Campbell to be his mentor. They began walking slowly towards the exit so that they could still look at the other paintings.

“That’s awesome, Castiel,” Charlie whispered softly. “And ignore these trolls. They’re just jealous. And stupid because they don’t understand how you’ve actually got the shit covered end of the stick here.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

“You heard Master Shurley: our mentors aren’t just supposed to be tutoring us in art, but they’re also meant to be our friends and confidants. A few weeks later when the pressure is really on and you just want to vent about how you hate everything and want to go home, do you think you can tell him that without seriously lowering yourself in his eyes? Or heck, being sent straight home?”

Castiel’s stomach felt like there were frozen worms squirming around in it. “I hadn’t thought of that. Although, he did point out that all Masters were novices once. I imagine that he may very well have felt overwhelmed at one point and can relate.”

“Maybe, but how long ago? He’s only used to success now.”

“Well, damn, Charlie.”

“Sorry.” Charlie linked arms with him and he felt a flush spread from the contact. “I don’t mean to freak you out. This is great. Really.”

“Sure. Very convincing.”

Another arm linked with his on his other side and Castiel turned surprised eyes onto Henry, who was observing Charlie. He smiled up at Castiel.

“Frienz,” he said, his “R” disappearing halfway into an “L” sound.

“Uh, yeah,” Castiel said. “Friends.”

“Think if I slap you on the ass he’ll do it too?” Charlie asked with a snicker.

“Do it and I’ll murder you,” he hissed.

Charlie’s eyes sparkled with mischief, but she behaved.

Once the group was out of the Hall of Portraits, Master Campbell led them back to the room where they’d had their lunch. The Apprentices were waiting for them with a stack of papers.

“These are your course schedules for the first quarter,” a tall, pretty blonde woman said.

“That’s my mentor,” Charlie whispered. “Her name is Jessica.”

“These classes have been selected for you,” Jessica continued, “based on your assessment by the scouts. You’ll be taking classes that play to your greatest strengths and weaknesses. The reasoning being that we can see if your strengths are as strong as they need to be to justify your continuing presence here, and to see if your weaknesses are so great that they can’t be overcome. You’ll be able to choose at least one course in your second quarter. If you make it there.”

The daunting words were tempered somewhat by her kind smile. “Come and get your schedules and then meet with your mentor to discuss them. And also to find out where on campus the classes are because day one starts tomorrow bright and early.”

The group shuffled forward murmuring eagerly and then began to break off with their mentors. Charlie showed hers to Castiel quickly.

“Watercolors and chalks,” she bemoaned softly. “Why watercolors?”

Castiel smiled. “I love watercolors. But, hey, you also have digital art and Paintshop, so…”

“Yeah. Those should be awesome. How about you?”

“Um, I have oils, oh! Watercolors.” They gave each other a discreet fist bump. “And…hunh. It’s blank. Well, it says Art, but that must be a placeholder.”

“Maybe you only have one weakness.”

“I have a lot of weaknesses. I could be in digital art.”

“Well, it has a classroom number next to it.”

“Weird.”

Jessica got their attention and waved Charlie over.

“Well, good luck,” Charlie said. “And I’ll see you tomorrow for breakfast and then maybe you can save my ass in watercolors.”

“Okay. Have a good night.”

“Bye!”

Castiel stood in the rapidly emptying room holding his schedule. He turned back to the other set of doors, half expecting Master Campbell to be waiting impatiently for him and half expecting him to be gone. The man stood still with his hands behind his back. He gave an amused smile at what must be the panicked look on Castiel’s face, a dimple flashing in one cheek. When he smiled like that, he really did seem more approachable.

“Come on, Castiel. Let’s see the verdict.”

Castiel crossed the room and handed Master Campbell his schedule. The Master looked it over and raised an eyebrow.

“Hmm. I wouldn’t have pegged watercolors as one of your weaknesses.”

“It’s not,” Castiel said, confused.

“Well, oils certainly aren’t.”

“Certainly not,” he agreed indignantly.

Master Campbell gave him that friendly, pleasant smile again. “Well, then it has to be watercolors. You only have three classes because Art takes up two slots. So, you’re only given one strength and one weakness.”

Without thinking Castiel snatched the paper back to look at it again. “My watercolors are not my worst medium by far! Master Campbell—”

“Please, just call me Campbell. If we’ll be working together closely, the title will become cumbersome. Now, don’t worry about your watercolor skills. I’m sure you’ll prove them wrong.”

“But, M-Mast—Um, Campbell, what is this placeholder class for?”

“It’s not a placeholder class, you nit, it’s Art.”

Castiel cocked his head. “Art?”

“Yes, Art with a capital A. It’s why you’ve been brought to this school—to learn to be an Artist and create Art for governance.”

Castiel knew he should be honored, but all he felt was despair that he was expected to create the same kind of soulless, uninspiring pieces he’d seen earlier. Campbell placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry. I know what you’re thinking. But all will be revealed tomorrow, and trust me, you’ll understand that Art—is the ultimate form of…moving people.”

Castiel was still utterly in the dark, but he nodded.

“I’ll pick you up at your room tomorrow at 7:45am sharp. Art class will last all morning. Then I’ll drop you off at lunch and one of your classmates will be able to direct you to your next class.”

“Okay.”

“I suggest you get a good night’s rest tonight. You’ll want to be alert tomorrow.”

Castiel nodded again. Campbell gave him another smile and nod, and then left him alone. Castiel looked down at his schedule. He thought he’d been brought here to learn to perfect his craft, not become a politician. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to go to one class. If it was truly their plans to make him become a common painter meant to simply record political events, then he could always go home and live happily on the coast painting what he loved.

That night Castiel tried to take Campbell’s advice and get some sleep, but he stared at the high ceiling in his room for a long time. The bed was comfortable and he was warm enough, but rather than being excited and anxious, he was just disappointed. The International Academy of Art was not turning out to be the experience he’d been expecting.

After a couple of hours he gave up trying to sleep and sat down at the desk. He opened his supply case and pulled out a sketchpad and charcoal pencil. He decided to sketch until he felt sleepy enough to go to bed. After an hour or so, his eyelids finally started to droop. He crawled into bed and fell asleep instantly, the lamp on the desk shining softly on dozens of sketches of the general from the Hall of Portraits.

~~~

At the first sharp rap, Castiel flung the door open. Campbell stood awkwardly with his hand in the air. He raised an eyebrow.

“Ready to go, I see,” he commented dryly.

Castiel shrugged sheepishly and felt a little foolish wearing a worn suit (but the best one he owned) with a white shirt and a blue and white striped tie. Campbell was in jeans and a red plaid button down.

“Should I change?” Castiel asked.

“Yes. But we don’t have time. Come on.”

Castiel groaned softly and moved to join Campbell in the hallway. The man stopped him and pulled the bulging bag off his shoulder. He walked into Castiel’s room and dumped the contents onto the bed. He rooted through them until he found a medium sized sketchpad, a charcoal pencil, and a gum eraser. He put those back in the bag, handed it to Castiel, and then indicated that they were leaving. Castiel looked longingly at his supplies on his bed, but followed his mentor out of the room, pulling the door shut. There were no locks on the dorm room doors.

Campbell walked at a brisk pace which was a little difficult to keep up with, and Castiel was slightly winded by the time they made it to the east wing of the building. He led them down a corridor that obviously didn’t see much traffic, and then used a keycard to let them into a section of building that was clearly not a part of the original as it was made from large, solid slabs of concrete. The doors were metal instead of wood and numbered starting with 33 as far as Castiel could tell. Campbell led them to room 38 and the inside was set up like one would find at an elementary school.

There was a whiteboard on the far wall, a large desk with two boxes covered in cloths on it, four easels split evenly on either side of the desk, three of which had covers, and three chairs with small desks attached to them. Master Shurley and three other world-renowned Master Artists waited on one side of the room. A young woman was already seated in one of the desks. The room reeked of fresh, unventilated oil paints. Campbell nodded to Castiel, and he quickly took a seat next to the woman. Campbell moved to stand with the other Masters and Head Master Shurley took his place at the front of the class.

“Hello, Castiel. Welcome to Art 101. We’ve selected you from millions of candidates to join us in learning how to create Art. How to create Law. And how Art and Law are one.”

Castiel blinked big eyes at him. Then he bent over and dug his sketch pad out of his bag. He sat up straight and poised with pencil in hand. Behind him to his left he heard one of the Masters snort in amusement.

“In order for you to begin learning the techniques, you’ll have to understand what I mean. And in order for you to understand what I mean, we’ll have to show you.”

The other Masters moved forward to stand in front of the easels. Master Zachariah Adler stood in front of the blank canvass, glanced back at Castiel, and then began to sketch rapidly. He was a tall man, balding with a little paunch around the middle, and a sharp, too-clever-for-his-own-good look about him.

Master Anna Milton, a waifish woman in her late fifties with grey streaks in her red hair, took up her post by the covered canvas next to Master Adler. Master Campbell stood by the corresponding covered canvass on the other side of the desk. Master Naomi Freeman was a pretty though severe-looking woman in her 60’s who removed the cover on the last canvass to reveal an incomplete portrait of the person sitting next to Castiel. Castiel turned to look at the other student in the room. She was about his age, maybe a little older, with curly dark hair and brown eyes. She smirked as she glanced at Castiel.

“Get ready to have your mind blown, newbie,” she murmured, her voice low and smoky.

Castiel gave her a mild look, but was distracted when he noticed that Master Adler had been sketching _him_ onto the canvas. And with just a barebones sketch in place had picked up a palette of paint and was beginning to bring the portrait to life. Castiel didn’t know what he had done to be awarded the privilege of being a subject for a Master Artist, but at the same time he felt like maybe it wasn’t a good thing at all.

“Castiel, this is Margaret Masters,” Master Shurley said. “She joined us last quarter from Tartarus as a candidate Artist from her country. We’ll be training her so that she can be her country’s representative during political negotiations.

“Before we begin, there are a few very important things you need to know and agree to. One: what we do in the classroom is to remain strictly confidential. We would threaten you with pain upon death, but as you’ll learn shortly, that’s absolutely unnecessary.”

Castiel shifted uncomfortably.

“You do have a choice in this. The point of this is to teach you how to govern through Art. To train you to be a political emissary because we’ve followed your career and your record and even know who you’ve voted for in the past and what causes you support and oppose.”

Castiel’s jaw dropped.

“Of course, what you champion and believe in and dislike are things that some of us agree with and don’t agree with. The point isn’t to find like-minded people and run a dictatorship here. Occimundi was founded on the principle of democracy.”

Margaret snorted derisively. Master Shurley ignored her.

“It’s because we know you to be honest and a proponent of the system that we chose you. We have faith that you would never abuse your power.”

Castiel shook his head. “What power?”

Master Shurley nodded to Campbell and Master Milton. “Show him.”

They removed the covers from the canvases at the same time that Master Shurley pulled the covers off the boxes on the desk. In the glass boxes, there was a pair of mice each separated by an opaque divide. On Master Milton’s canvas was an oil painting of a box on the desk with the two mice sharing a piece of cheese with the divide gone. On Campbell’s canvas was a glass box on the desk with the two mice fighting viciously. Castiel flinched away from how real and fresh the painted blood looked, and the distorted screech of pain frozen on the losing mouse’s face.

“Castiel.”

Castiel tore his eyes away from the painting and looked at Master Shurley.

“I will say this is plain Loquella. Art…has power. And as the Artist, we have the power to control the subjects of our Art. We can control actions, beliefs, circumstance...To some very small extent weather and nature. We can use our art to affect reality.”

Castiel glanced around the room, looking for some indication that they were waiting for his reaction so that they could laugh at him and tell him they were just messing with him. Everyone looked serious and the smirk on Margaret’s features was gone.

“I don’t—” He tried not to say I don’t believe you. “I don’t understand. I’ve drawn my brother stepping in dog poo a hundred times. He never has.”

A ripple of amusement passed through the Masters.

“Because then you were just making art. Not Art. In order to affect change with paint, you must also use words. The part of the painting that will be controlled by us cannot be drawn or painted in brushstrokes. It must be drawn or painted in the written word.”

Castiel’s brow creased in confusion. He couldn’t grasp what master Shurley was trying to say, until he remembered the painting of the treaty he’d seen the day before. The peace treaty on the table hadn’t been just mixed white paint, it had been the word “peace” repeated so many times that it had become nearly solid.

“Like the peace treaty in Master Alfre's painting,” he said, so that they would know he had a vague idea of what they were talking about.

“Yes, exactly,” Master Shurley said.

“I told you he was sharp,” Campbell said with an edge of pride in his tone.

“So, you’re saying that the Intercontinental War only ended because he painted it to?” Cas could hear the incredulity in his voice and couldn’t control it.

“Oh, no,” Master Shurley said. “We don’t control the world like that. We don’t have that much power nor would we want it. The Intercontinental War was a result of the follies of the people of those times and no matter how much diplomacy was instilled in the Art made then, war was the only solution they could see. When the war ended however, we were tasked with making sure that the peace treaty would hold. And for almost a hundred years now, it has. All countries around the world are flourishing because the peace is holding.”

“Not all countries,” Castiel said. “The entirety of the western half of the eastern continent is under the rule of Vacivo and is suffering every day.”

“That falls outside of our purview,” Master Freeman said.

“Why? If you could get the Vacivo to stop committing genocide, why wouldn’t you?”

“And exercise a Muselike power?” Master Shurley asked. “Our world has experienced that before. Are you familiar with the Dark Ages?”

Castiel shrugged. “As much as anyone can be. We don’t know much about human history before the Dawn of Enlightenment at the beginning of the Common Era.”

“ _Most_ people don’t. We do. We know what happens when Artists exercise control over the human mind.”

Castiel swallowed and glanced around. Castiel Shurley nodded to Master Milton. She picked up a brush and leaned close to the edge of her painting and began filling in the bottom corner with tiny brushstrokes.

“I’ve painted my will onto the mice in this painting,” Master Milton said. “I’ve imbued it with peace and amity and cooperation. I’ve made them both docile and then this final stroke will make these two mice, despite being hungry, share a piece of cheese calmly.” She stopped painting and looked up.

Master Shurley removed the divide between one set of mice and placed a piece of cheese in the center. One of them snapped it up and ran away. The other squeaked and looked, honestly, confused. Castiel didn’t see the mice doing anything Master Milton had indicated. He looked at her. She smiled and leaned forward to place one final stroke on the painting. Suddenly the mice moved toward each other and the mouse with the cheese set it down where they could both reach it and nibble on it.

Castiel let out a small sound of disbelief. That had to be a coincidence. He looked at the painting and then back at the cooperative mice. He didn’t really believe the two were connected, but even if they were he didn’t see what was so bad about it.

“So?” Castiel voiced his thoughts. “If she did in fact do that, what’s wrong with it? Being cooperative and sharing food is something humans could stand to do more of.”

“Because, if we allow ourselves to control people like this, what’s to stop us from controlling them like this?” Master Shurley lifted the divide between the other two mice. He didn’t put any cheese in, and they continued on about their mice-y business--until Campbell placed a careless stroke on his canvass.

The mice turned on each other with tiny battle shrieks. Castiel jumped halfway out of his seat as the two animals began to tear into each other viciously. Their squeals of pain were somehow the loudest thing Castiel had ever heard. He glanced at the painting and realized that was where the mice were headed—toward one with a broken leg and gouged out eye ripping the throat out of the other one.

Castiel was on his feet and moving before his brain decided whether he should interfere with the mice directly or the painting. The painting was closer and he shouted “Don’t!” as he dragged a hand through the still wet paint. It smeared and the mice stopped fighting for a moment. They circled and attacked a couple more times, but not with nearly as much vitriol. Then one backed away and the other retreated as well. Master Shurley put the divide back between the mice and Castiel looked down at the mess of red and grey paint on his palm. He looked up at Campbell in horror. The man waved him off.

“It wasn’t a masterpiece by any means, Castiel. It was a tool.”

Castiel curled his hands into fists, the paint squishing out between his knuckles on his right hand.

“I…I’m sorry.”

“For showing compassion?” Master Shurley asked. “Don’t apologize for that. If anything it proves that we were right to select you. I don’t suppose you would even be mildly tempted to control another human in that way.”

Castiel shook his head.

“Well, now the problem becomes are you unwilling to _influence_ a human in some way?”

Castiel swallowed and looked at the floor. “I don’t know.”

“Good. We can work with that. If you’re still willing to learn. You’re not committed to it yet, of course. You can still leave at any time. You can stay as long as you like to learn how to make Art.”

Castiel looked up. “And if I choose not to learn Art, can I still stay at the Academy?”

Master Shurley’s face softened, and he opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. Master Adler spoke instead.

“Of course not. You were invited here because you have a good head on your shoulders and an above-average talent for realism. Your artistic merit is mediocre at best. It would be a waste to train you. You’d never achieve the status of Master without being a Master of Art.”

Castiel reached behind himself to find the desktop to his seat. He used it to guide himself back so he could sit down. His wobbling knees wouldn’t hold him up. He was a mediocre artist?

“Castiel,” Master Freeman said, her voice gentle, but brooking no argument. “You have more talent in your pinky finger than most everyone on the planet. Don’t think that you aren’t skilled. But…you’re twenty-seven. Look at the quality of the works you’ve done. You are not a Master and you never will be. However, you have the skill to be an Artist, and you can achieve the status of Master through that.”

“But if you don’t want to learn Art,” Master Milton said, “you’re of no use to us.”

Castiel could feel tears burning behind his eyes and inhaled shakily.

“You’ll be able to take regular classes in conjunction with your Art lessons,” Master Shurley said. “They will only help you improve. Your art is of sufficient quality to hang in many galleries around the world. But you lack that _nescio quid_ that makes a true Master. However, what you were recruited for is of much greater importance. Castiel, there are ten Master artists in the world, but there are only five Master Artists. Only half of those who even reach the rank of Master are entrusted with this great knowledge.”

“Just you five and a few other _vermis_ from around the world?” Castiel asked bitterly.

“A necessary evil,” Master Adler sneered but didn’t turn his attention away from his painting of Castiel, which was shaping up rapidly.

“Occimundi runs the world, Castiel,” Campbell said. “It always has, even before it was known as Occimundi. Caelus is the heart of government. The heart of Art. The beginning and end of civilization. You’re being entrusted with the next generation.”

Castiel’s fingers curled tightly against the desk. “That’s a lot of responsibility.”

“Less than you think,” Master Shurley said. “As I said before, we don’t make decisions and control people. The world and the countries and the people in it are responsible for what happens in it. We Artists merely make sure that those decisions are carried out as planned, expected, and peacefully.”

“But…isn’t risk an inherent part of making a decision? If you make a decision and know it will work, what is the risk of not going in another direction?”

“The politicians don’t know that,” Margaret said. “They think there is risk. The Artists just make sure nothing spirals out of control.”

“But still, that isn’t natural.”

“No, it’s not,” Master Shurley agreed. “Do you know about the Fall of Celestium?”

Castiel shrugged. He’d taken history in high school. “It was the country that Caelus was founded in. Eight hundred years ago there was a war and Celestium fell, but Caelus was fortified so the people were able to sustain themselves for a thirty year siege. The armies eventually deserted over the years until they had all returned to their native lands. Over the next four hundred years, the Caelus people slowly expanded their control until about two hundred years ago when the entire western continent fell under their control and the united country was named Occimundi.”

“A-plus,” Margaret quipped.

Cas shot her a look, but didn’t comment.

“What do you know about the century preceding the fall of Celestium and the thirty year siege of the city?”

“It was chaos. At least, that’s the way my teacher described it. War, famine, pestilence…people died by the thousands every day.”

“Do you know why?”

Castiel sat back, feeling a little annoyed. He shook his head.

“A few years before, the Artists had the same notion that you did. That influencing human actions and events even a little bit was unnatural. The Devil’s work. So, they stopped teaching Art. They stopped making Art. And they even destroyed the Art depicting the peace treaties holding the tribes together. With the influence of the Art gone, humans were able to behave as humans would naturally behave.”

“Chaos,” Master Milton said. “Your teacher was right.”

“Betrayal, greed, power-hungry, warmongering,” Master Freeman said in her calm, steady voice. “They destroyed the world. The Artists back then waited. They thought humans would eventually set themselves right again. But everything only crumbled faster.”

“It took thirty years for the lost Art to be found again,” Master Shurley concluded the lesson. “Thirty years before they could start salvaging what humans had become without Art to guide them.”

“Do you understand why we are taught that Art is Governance?” Campbell asked. “Because humans are incapable of governing themselves.”

Castiel rubbed his eyebrow and smeared paint along his forehead. His mind was racing with this information. “Can I—am I allowed to think on it?”

“Of course,” Master Shurley said. “We will educate you and train you, and you won’t be expected to give us an answer until the end of the quarter.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand. I also vow silence on the matter. But…I do have to wonder…”

“How has this never been leaked? Even as a conspiracy theory?”

Castiel shrugged and nodded. Master Shurley nodded toward Master Adler. He was very, very carefully painting Castiel’s lips where he had been haphazardly (though beautifully) rendering Castiel’s other features. Then he saw that master Adler was actually writing.

“The people who know about the secret are incapable of talking about it outside of this addition,” Master Shurley said. “Even us. Your fingers will also be spelled to prevent you from writing or drawing it.”

Castiel rolled his lips in and curled his fingers together. He didn’t feel any different, and he couldn’t feel anything on his lips, but he was terrified to know that these people had control of him. That they could take this portrait of him and change it to whatever they liked.

“Rest easy, Castiel. Your portrait will be locked in a vault at the back of this building that has four locks on it. It can only be opened when all four locks are turned at the same time along with a voice command. Each Master’s portrait is locked in the same manner and three of us will have a key, and so will you. You can select which three of us will hold a key to your portrait.”

Castiel closed his eyes. This was all very overwhelming. Then he opened his eyes.

“That’s why there aren’t any portraits of Masters anywhere. Not even in the Hall of Portraits. Not a single self-portrait. They don’t trust it. They—you—don’t trust each other.”

Campbell shrugged. “We do trust each other. But…it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Let’s not think on the gravity of your decision for now,” Master Shurley said. “Quite a bit goes into making Art. It’s not as simple as writing something down and it coming true. If that were the case, every novel and Internet rant would be true, and isn’t that a scary thought?”

Castiel nodded.

“Color selection and mixing is very important. Everything has to match the scene perfectly. It’s the only way the paint has any power. And it must be oil paints.”

Castiel continued to stare dumbly at him. Master Shurley nodded pointedly at the forgotten sketchpad and pencil on Castiel’s desk. With a start, he took the hint and began taking notes. Margaret sighed and sat back in her chair. Apparently she had learned all this several weeks ago.

By noon Castiel’s hand was cramping, his mind was a puddle of goo, and his portrait was mostly completed and magnificent in grandeur. Clearly Master Adler wasn’t just an Art Master, but a true Master of art.

Castiel selected Master Shurley, Master Campbell, and Master Freeman to be the ones who held a key to his portraits vault. Even after seeing it (and his notes) sealed and being given a key to the lock didn’t make him feel particularly safe. There could be dozens of copies of any of these keys and any four people could turn the locks. Of course, it had been Castiel’s voice that recorded the voice command, but that couldn’t be that hard to fake or override. He realized that if he was going to be an Artist, he would have to trust his fellow Artists, just like they would have to trust him. He could paint a portrait of any one of them at his leisure in his own room. What was to stop him from messing with them? Other than the fact that he didn’t actually know the techniques yet, and the fact that he would never feel right or comfortable doing that to someone else.

He supposed that’s what they meant when they said that he had been selected for his character. He was moral enough not to take advantage of this knowledge and abuse the fledgling power given to him. He had to trust that the other five Masters had the same mettle. But what of Margaret? He glanced at her as they walked through the concrete corridor and back to the main building of the Academy.

“You needn’t worry about Margaret,” Campbell whispered to him softly. “She can’t speak or write about the power of Art like you, but unlike you, she also won’t remember anything about it outside of these walls. Out there she thinks she’s simply taking classes at the Academy.”

Castiel stopped walking and gaped at Campbell. The man took him by the bicep and got him to continue walking.

“She consented to it. It’s part of the agreement of giving her the power to work for her own government, but she understands that we can’t just let this information be leaked from Caelus’ walls.”

“Why us? Why has no one else in the world figured this out?”

“The person who discovered the power recruited people from around the world. They are the founders of Caelus.”

“Who was that? And how did he know?”

“Some say she discovered it by accident. Some say the Muses came to her and made her their Chosen One. Some say it was the Devil.”

“What did _she_ say about it?”

Campbell gave him a smile. “She never did say.”

“And no one asked?”

Campbell shrugged. “Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. But no one alive knows and she’s not around anymore to ask.”

Master Milton held the heavy metal door separating the corridor from the east wing open for everyone to pass through. Castiel watched Margaret carefully to see if anything happened to her when she crossed the threshold. She appeared to be fine.

“Excellent first day,” Master Shurley said. “You must be starving for lunch.”

Castiel and Margaret nodded. Master Shurley faced Campbell. “They’re your charges,” he said.

“Margaret,” Campbell said, “you know where the cafeteria is. Show Castiel, and there I’m sure you’ll be able to find someone to tell you where your next class is.”

“Stellar mentoring,” Master Shurley murmured, but he and the other Masters dispersed without another word.

Castiel turned to Margaret. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she said, somewhat suspicious of his odd tone.

“Did you really forget?”

“Forget what?”

Castiel found he couldn’t even form a thought to express what he meant about the power of Art. He shrugged.

“Well, I haven’t forgotten that you destroyed one of Master Campbell’s paintings. It was a demo piece he was going to destroy anyway, but that takes balls.”

Castiel blushed. Out of everything that had happened that morning, running his hand through the paint to prevent the mice from killing each other seemed like such a trivial thing. He wondered what Margaret thought was the reason he had done it if she really couldn’t remember about the way the painting had controlled the mice.

“Anyway, good thing for you I like balls. I actually go by Meg.” She stuck out her hand and Castiel accepted.

“I usually go by Cas.”

“Great. Now that we’re best-ish friends and all, let’s go get lunch.”

They started to make their way toward the cafeteria, and Castiel chuckled to himself.

“What?” Meg asked.

“If you become a Master, you’ll be Master Masters.”

He sniggered again and Meg rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

“Looks like they picked you more for your talent than your brains.”

When they reached the cafeteria, Meg left him to join her class which had come in at the beginning of the spring quarter. There were only seven of them. Castiel found Charlie and discovered that he was actually grateful his lips were spelled not to speak about what Art class was really about. It had made it easier to joke about how the class was supposed to teach good artists how to be terrible copycats. He felt safe making up a story about how he’d been told that realism was more important than artist interpretation or emotion without the fear of letting anything slip. A part of him wished he could talk about it with her, but mostly, he knew he could have kept the secret without the spell work. He had given his word, and back in Maritima at least, that meant something. Also, he wouldn’t want to put the burden he felt onto Charlie. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling.

Charlie guided him to Watercolors 101 and they took a seat together in the middle of the classroom. Examples of all the students’ art were hanging around the room. There was a clear divide between the students who were considered to have this class as their strength, and those for who it was a weakness. Castiel’s painting of the fishing boats coming in on a summer night was among the weaker paintings.

“Which one is yours?” Charlie asked, looking at the truly spectacular watercolors hanging to their left.

He pointed to his on the right. “That one. Sail boats.”

“Oh. I thought they had us divided…”

“They do.”

Charlie looked at him and Castiel shrugged. “Art takes up two slots. Oils are a strength. Apparently watercolors are a weakness for me too.”

“Oh. Still better than mine,” she said, pointing to a watery mess of greens and browns.

“You were not exaggerating,” he said, realizing only too late how insulting that was.

Charlie just laughed it off. “I know. It’s rough. Honestly, I think yours is better than some of the ‘good’ ones over there. You know art is subjective.”

“Not here.”

Charlie shrugged but didn’t respond because the professor stood up at the front of the class and began her lesson. Castiel allowed himself to sink into a bit of a funk. Who cared if he had the power to control people through Art?  Apparently he was a hack.


	2. Part II: The Viridoctrin General

“Castielllllllll!” Charlie drew out his name. “Let’s go!”

She pounded on his dorm room door and he griped silently as he shoved his watercolor supplies into his bag. He flung open the door and Charlie gave him an exasperated look.

“Dude. The bus is leaving in six minutes. We gotta haul ass.”

Castiel shuffled outside and shut the door, grumbling about early morning weekend field trips.

“Come on, Cas. We’re going to the Falls of the Muses. One of the most beautiful natural wonders of the world! Excursion tickets are so expensive only the rich and famous ever see it in person. How are you not excited about this?”

They started down the marble staircase to the front lobby of the Academy.

“I’d be more excited if it weren’t five in the fucking morning.”

“Come on, we gotta catch the sunrise on the falls. And if the beauty isn’t enough for you, how about the fact this painting is worth fifty percent of your grade and you’re only going see the falls once in person?”

Castiel grumbled some more. Who cared what grade he got in this class? No one expected him to excel anyway. He snoozed on the bus even though it bounced and rumbled like the Inditerra James Adventure Ride at Fitzgeraldland. He snoozed on the grass beside Charlie as they waited for sunrise. The hike up to the falls in near pitch black had not been pleasant, but the darkness and soothing sound of the rushing falls made for an easy escape to dreamland.

Castiel woke suddenly, aware that he’d been poked. He expected to see Charlie, but instead he saw the stern face of his professor.

“Don’t you think you should be setting up your easel and paints, Castiel?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Castiel stretched as he sat up and gave a little wave to Henry who was camped nearby.

“You no scare Aurum?” Henry asked, referring to the professor.

“Nah. What’s she gonna do to me?”

“Fire school,” Henry said seriously.

“I’d like to see her try,” Castiel muttered, but he obediently got his paper and paints ready. It was hard to mix colors when you didn’t know what colors you needed, but at the very least he’d always been good at knowing how much of which colors would make the correct combination for what he was aiming for. It was probably another reason why he was selected to learn Art. He had an innate ability to mix colors to perfectly imitate reality. He was a frickin’ mimic.

He was grateful he’d come along though when the sun rose. The Falls of the Muses were more than just a waterfall—it was like looking into another world. The mists rose up thick and heavy and scattered the rising sunlight into warm rainbows. The mix of grey slate and pinkish-purplish quartz that made up the sheer face the water crashed down was a bizarre coupling of nature. It was stunning. Castiel wished he had his oils.

“Yo, Cas!”

Cas looked up from his work, not realizing how immersed he’d been in his painting until he saw a couple pieces of paper crumpled up near him. He saw Ozma waving a hand at him. She was a pretty girl with a quirky personality who had no problem speaking her mind to anyone.

“Yo, finally. Tell your girlfriend to take her headphones off.”

Castiel was confused for a moment, and then he turned and saw Charlie with her head down, the white wires of her earbuds visible amongst the strands of red. Then he frowned at Ozma and nudged Charlie. She pulled one earbud out.

“What’s up?”

“Ozma wants you. And she’s not my girlfriend!” he directed to Ozma across the small circle of students. “Stop gossiping like a high schooler.”

“Technically, I _am_ a high schooler,” Ozma retorted.

“What, did you fail a couple grades?”

“I’m only nineteen, alright? It’s normal to still be in thirteenth year!”

“Sure, sure.”

“What do you want, Ozma?” Charlie asked.

“You have a five-eighths brush, right?”

“Yeah, hang on.”

Charlie dug around in her supplies and then threw a brush across the circle of grass. Ozma caught it easily.

“Thanks, red, you’re good to me. Too bad you’re taken, eh?”

The class sniggered and Charlie’s fair skin turned pink. She put the earbud back in and started to work again. Castiel glanced at her curiously, but didn’t try to bother her while they were working. On the bus ride back, he let her snuggle up beside him so that the jostling was lessened somewhat.

“So…was I missing something this morning?” he asked. “Are we dating?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Oh. Did I…give you the impression that I…”

“No, no. I know you’ve done nothing. I just told people we’re dating.”

“Ah.”

Castiel wondered if he should ask her why she’d made up the lie. Despite knowing each other for only four weeks, they had become quite close, but he wasn’t sure if he’d earned the right to ask her why she was lying about something so trivial even if it involved him. He’d learned that more often than not the sillier the lie was the more serious an issue it was covering up.

“You should have told me. I told her we weren’t dating.”

“Yeah, I told her you’d deny it if she asked you.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

She shrugged.

“You still need me to be your faux-beau?”

Charlie tilted her head to look at him. “You don’t mind? You’re not mad?”

“Nope.”

Castiel grinned at her and she smiled back. She curled even tighter against his side.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

“Sure. Anything for a friend.”

When the bus arrived back at the Academy, it was still early enough for people to make plans to hang out, but everyone was rushing back to their rooms to continue their watercolors. Castiel would have gone to the cafeteria to scrounge some snacks from the vending machines, but Campbell was waiting for him. And he didn’t look particularly happy.

“Castiel,” Campbell said, his voice rough. “Come with me.”

His stomach dropping to his feet, Castiel followed his mentor. He hadn’t seen Campbell other than for lessons in Art class and a glimpse or two around campus. He wondered what he could have done to make him upset. Last Art class, he’d praised Castiel’s ability to quickly progress his realism from stylized to photograph-like. He still hadn’t painted any words in his pieces yet, so they were dull, lifeless things, but apparently that was a step in the right direction.

After winding through the twisting halls of professors’ offices, Campbell led them into his office. There was a desk, two chairs, and a single bookcase with a few books on it. There were no personal effects, no art on the walls. It was a little weird.

“Have a seat, Castiel.”

Castiel sat in the smaller chair in front of the desk and Campbell sat down in the large chair behind it. He leaned an elbow on the arm rest and put his chin in his hand. He looked at Castiel for a long time without speaking. Castiel just kept shifting uncomfortably.

“What’s this I hear about you being close to flunking your classes?”

Castiel’s eyebrows shot up. He didn’t know he was close to flunking.

“You take two classes, Castiel. Two. And we’re only five weeks into an eleven week quarter. How can you possibly be failing?”

“I—I don’t know. I didn’t know I was.”

“You ever heard of an A for effort?”

“Uh…yeah…”

“Well, you’re getting an F in effort. Professors have kicked students out of the Academy for not showing the proper amount of enthusiasm.”

Castiel frowned. “How am I supposed to be enthusiastic? I suck at art. My whole life and dreams and—”

“Oh, shut up, you whiny brat. ‘Boo hoo, some people told me my art’s not as good as I thought it was.’ Every single student here has been told that their art isn’t as good as they thought it was.”

“They at least have the possibility of still becoming a Master!”

Castiel sat back, mortified that he’d raised his voice.

“They do not. You’re the only one who has the slightest potential of becoming a Master. Sure, that’s being a Master of Art as opposed to oils or sculpture or whatever bullshit they do on computers. But you’re the Master candidate for your class. We only bring in one per class. Masters aren’t common, Castiel. Art Masters are even rarer. So, we can’t lose you. You are progressing—adequately—in Art, but you are a student at this Academy and you must excel in all of your classes.”

Castiel opened his mouth, but Campbell sat up and leaned on his desk.

“Listen here, you nitwit. If you weren’t a good artist, no amount of having a good eye for color mixing would have gotten you in here. We don’t find people with the moral characteristics we need and then see if they can draw a straight line. We scout exceptional artists. You were scouted by the Academy. Further examination revealed you to be a candidate to study Art. While you may not have made it into a class based solely on your other talents, you made it in for your ability to make Art. Most people here make it in because they are great at many things but only exceptional in one. Why do you think we make you all pick majors in your second year? You specialize. No one is going to try to turn a master worker of acrylics into the next Uriel.”

Castiel looked down at his hands, ashamed of his behavior for the past few weeks.

“Now, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to continue in your watercolors and oils classes, and you’re going to appreciate the world-class education you’re getting and try to learn something from it. And you’re going to love doing it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Yes, sir!” he said cheerily.

“That’s what I thought. In addition to that, you are going to get your butt in gear working on your final project. You have a portrait that needs to be completed in thirty-nine weeks. And considering you’re trying to become an Art Master, your imitation had better be nearly flawless. After all, that is your skill.”

Castiel frowned at that reminder.

“I will be checking on your progress once a week. Now, if you’re going to ignore your watercolor, I suggest you go down to the Hall of Portraits for the rest of today and begin work on that general.”

Castiel finally raised his head. “The General? The Viridoctrin one? By Master Lucifer? I’ve changed my mind about that. I’ll pick something else.”

Master Campbell smiled beatifically at him, and it was terrifying.

“You’re going to be painting what for your final project?”

Castiel swallowed. “M-Master Lucifer’s _Viridoctrin General_.”

“Excellent choice. Now get out of my office.”

Castiel jumped to his feet and fled the room. His heart was pounding and it wasn’t because he was running. That man was more than just intimidating; he was downright scary. Castiel didn’t stop running until he was in his dorm room. He collected his sketchpad, pencils, and mini folding stool, and then jog-walked to the Hall of Portraits.

Inside the quiet chamber, there were two other students sitting in front of portraits either sketching or painting. Neither were from his class. He took a moment to collect himself and then walked silently on the thick carpet to the painting of the handsome general. Beside him the woman with the wolfhound looked plainer by comparison. Castiel suspected many women had not enjoyed standing in the same room as General Winchester.

Castiel unfolded his stool and took a moment to wiggle his butt around until he found that one spot where it was actually comfortable to sit. He looked up at the general in his regal clothes and proud yet melancholic expression. How was he supposed to capture that? A man who looked both confident and sure of himself and yet utterly devoid of hope. He wondered what had happened to the general to put that expression on his face. Castiel flipped open his sketchbook and started to work.

“I don’t suppose someone told you that you’d been selected to be a general but that you were actually just an adequate soldier who could _imitate_ a general really well,” he said softly, his voice being swallowed up by the carpet and the thick swathes of cloth that hung on the walls between paintings.

“I bet you earned your place not just through hard work but because you were good at what you did.” He sketched the curve of a shoulder. “What do generals do anyway? Lead, I guess. But are you responsible for strategizing? Or do you just give orders that someone else figured out?” His pencil moved down the arm and jumped to the waistcoat. “Or Hell, maybe you _didn’t_ earn your place. At least not through your brains. Maybe people thought you were pretty so they kept promoting you up the chain of command until too late they realized you’d taken over.” He sketched the edge of a hip and thigh. “Or, maybe you earned your way up the ladder the old fashioned way. On your back. On your knees…”

Castiel’s hand paused as he sketched the slight bulge on the front of the dress pants. He gulped and looked up at the same spot on the painting. Castiel was good with spatial relationships and depth perception—if that thing was accurate, the general was in possession of more than one impressive sword. Castiel’s eyes darted up to the man’s face. He knew the painting couldn’t hear him or see what Castiel was lingering on, but he still felt a little skeevy.

“Sorry. I’m sure you earned it.” Castiel continued on with his leg. “I hear being adequate can be worthwhile too.”

He glanced up at the man’s face again. It was as stoic and sad as ever, but he thought he caught a glimmer of mirth around the corners of his mouth this time. He was going to have to really study this painting before he saw all its intricacies.

~~~

“So, my brother, Gabriel, he’s the one with the ‘golden eyes and the sweet touch’ that all the girls love, remember? Right. So, he says, ‘We’re Vacation Testers.’ And the owner of the yacht—who is spitting mad by this point—is like, ‘What the eff is a Vacation Tester? Get off my boat you mothereffers!’ And Gabriel says, ‘We’re consultants. We get paid to try out the luxury liners and then report back to our employers so that they know which boat they want to rent.’ And then he goes on this spiel about how much money these fictional employers would spend and how they’d already tested three other ships and he waved over at another yacht where his friend worked as a deck swab. So the friend waved back, but he was wearing the Captain’s uniform. So this guy somehow buys this hook, line, and sinker. And Gabriel and six of his friends spent a week getting pampered on a luxury liner for free. Didn’t invite me,” Castiel grumbled. “Of course, I would have been too chicken shit to go. Did you have to put up with wild siblings? I really ought to look something up about you.”

“Hey.”

Castiel screeched and jumped a foot off his stool. From down the great hall someone shushed him. Castiel turned and saw Charlie, frozen in her startled reaction. He relaxed when he recognized that she was flesh and blood. She relaxed when he did.

“Who are you talking to?” Charlie whispered.

“Oh, uh.” Castiel rubbed the back of his neck embarrassedly. “Dean.”

“Who’s Dean?”

Castiel nodded his head toward the painting. Charlie looked at the general. She glanced back at Cas.

“Oooo-kay.” She knelt down and helped him pick up his scattered pages. “I can’t believe you’re still on sketches, dude. The first quarter is almost over.”

“I got a late start.”

“Even so, you should be sketching on canvass by now.”

“I know. I just…I can’t get it right. I don’t want to move onto the canvas until I know that I can do it.”

“I get it, but seriously, get a move on. Anyway, come on. They’re about to turn out the city center lights. If we aren’t in our places for star painting by then we’ll never find them.”

“I’m coming.” Castiel bundled his sketches together and stuffed them into his bag. “Let’s go. I have my watercolor stuff with me.”

“Cool.” Charlie continued to look through the sketches as they walked toward the entrance, then she handed them to Castiel. “These are freaking amazing, Cas. You’re ready for canvas. Although, you did fuck up the hands.”

“What? Fuck you.”

Charlie just smiled and shrugged. Castiel frowned and looked at the hands on one sketch. They were perfect. So were the hands on the second sketch. And the third. He stopped walking as he looked at all three sketches together. They all looked perfectly different.

“Cas, gets to steppin’, bitch.”

Castiel shook himself and hurried after Charlie. They made it to the knoll behind City Hall about four minutes before the lights went out. Darkening the city center did reduce the light pollution a little bit, but they were still surrounded by a humongous city that was lively and jumping on a Friday night. The new moon helped too, but the small lanterns they were using to paint by almost negated the benefit. Castiel thought it was ridiculous that they were meant to create a painting of a starry night when they could barely see the stars. Especially a watercolor. The night sky was meant to be done in dark, thick oils.

Charlie grumbled discontentedly to herself as she worked. The additional challenge of this piece was that they weren’t allowed to plan or sketch. They had to go straight to their final product with watercolors, and they couldn’t start over. Castiel was still frowning at his paints; it was impossible to get a decently dark color in watercolor. Sure, he could get dark colors, but they wouldn’t be _right_.

“Hey, red, keep making those sexy noises over there and we’ll wonder what’s going on,” Ozma’s voice came from somewhere near them and to the left.

The rest of the class snickered softly so as not to draw the attention of their professor, and Charlie let out a small noise, the tone of which Castiel couldn’t identify.

“Look, _Oz_ ,” Charlie said, “you’re cute and all, but you’re not my type. I like ‘em tall, dark, and with a penis.”

“More’s the pity,” Ozma feigned heartbreak.

“Right, Cas?” Charlie asked.

“What, that I like ‘em tall, dark, and with a penis?”

Everyone laughed louder and the teacher shushed them, which worked for maybe fifteen seconds before murmured conversations resumed. Charlie shot Cas a look for his comment and he shrugged.

“I kinda do.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and very carefully raised her brush to her paper. “Is that why you talk to that painting? Are you trying to seduce him?”

“Charlie, even if it were in any way possible… _Hell yes_.”

Charlie smiled but didn’t look away from her work. “You’re so weird.”

“I just appreciate beauty.”

“You appreciate sex.”

“A little bit. But not as much as you’re implying.”

“Students!” the teacher yelled, cracking the peaceful night. “ _Shut up_!”

There was a moment of silence, and then everyone sniggered. A belabored sigh drifted from where Professor Aurum had last been seen.

~~~

Castiel packed up his supplies for another session with Dean—another session working on his final project he meant. He was finally going to start sketching on his five by three foot canvas. Charlie lay on her stomach on his bed, flipping through a magazine on her tablet.

“We should hang out in my room more,” Charlie mused. “I’ve got a G-Box. We could play _Zombie Fairy Land._ ”

“That game is so fucked up.”

“That game is awesome, you’re just a loser.”

Castiel sighed more for effect than from any real consternation. “So, why don’t you ask Ozma to play with you?”

“She’s busy.”

“Well, so am I.”

Charlie frowned and sat up on his bed cross-legged. “You know, you spend so much time with ‘Dean,’ that if he weren’t a painting, I’d seriously suspect that you were cheating on me.”

Castiel laughed and put his hands on Charlie’s knees so that he could lean down and look her in the eye.

“Charlie. We’re not actually dating.”

“Oh…that’s right. I keep forgetting,” she teased.

Castiel smiled and stood up. He shouldered his bag and hefted the large, stretched canvas up with his hands.

“Maybe we should, though.”

Castiel stopped moving. He put the canvas back down and looked at Charlie. She was looking at her hands and seemed more like someone who had suggested a suicide pact as opposed to a relationship. Castiel glanced at his watch. He just didn’t have the time to suss out what was going on in her head at the moment. Nor did he want to have the “Yes, I know I said I’m bisexual, and I kind of am, but, seriously, dicks are my jam” talk at the moment.

“Well, you live in Fuck of Nowhere Frigiterra. I’m way down on the southern coast. If either of us doesn’t come back next quarter, then we’ll never see each other, so there’d be no point to dating. Let’s consider it if we’re both still here in two weeks.”

Charlie popped off the bed looking more her usual self. “Well, I’ll be here next quarter. I guess the unknown is you.”

“Thanks,” Cas muttered and picked up his canvas again.

Charlie held the door open for him as he shuffled out sideways.

“Do you think we’re going to lose any people?” Charlie asked. “I mean, I think we’re all really talented.”

“Well, you know my friend, Meg, from the spring quarter?”

“Yeah.”

“Her incoming class had sixteen people in. There’s seven of them now.”

“Shut up!”

“I’m serious.”

Charlie helped guide him down the staircase so he wouldn’t stumble and break his neck.

“They would seriously ax half the class?”

“Well, Meg said it was a pretty sub-par group.”

“She has a low opinion about everyone.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

“Okay, can you make it from here? I’m going to go see if I can chase down Professor Aurum and suck up a bit.”

“She liked your star painting. I liked your star painting. Would you sell it to me?”

Charlie looked shocked at his offer. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, it’s great. And my dorm walls are totally bare.”

“Oh. No, I won’t sell it. You can have it.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. You’re my 'dea.'” She gave him a smile and then kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck with Dean.”

“Thanks. And hey, where the hell did ‘dea’ come from, anyway?”

“I think it’s a derivative of dear…I have no idea.”

“Mm, it’s clever,” he said dryly.

“Shut up. Go away.”

“Hot and cold, Middleton. You always run so hot and cold.”

Castiel was still in a good mood when he entered the Hall of Portraits. Charlie had wormed her way past his defenses and into his heart faster than any of his friends back home. He knew their play-dating was not really a good idea. Even though they both knew it was just pretend, he sometimes felt like he was leading her on. Maybe it would be better if he got sent home at the end of the quarter. That didn’t seem likely as he was really excelling in his Art classes, and his talent for oils turned out to be genuine unlike his mediocrity in watercolors. Besides, if he left now, he’d never finish his Viridoctrin General.

Castiel set up in front of the portrait and took a long moment to stare at the portrait before he finally began etching the outlines on his canvas. He never did much more than mark out placement of objects for his oil paintings, but he decided to give this one a little more structure so that he wouldn’t keep messing up the hands. He looked up to the general’s face. The mirth he’d thought he’d seen once in the corners of the mouth was gone. It was like every new angle showed something different. For instance, his eyes didn’t look nearly as sad as he’d once perceived them to be; he looked angry now.

“I don’t want to paint you angry,” Castiel said as he sketched. “I’ll find the angle that has the sorrow again. I know it’s morbid, but I prefer the way you look when I get that angle right. Not that I wish you were sad in life. I hope you had a good life. Hell, I don’t even know if you lived a long life. You could have died in battle shortly after this was painted.

“I tried to look you up, you know. But all I could find was information about the painting. It’s weird that you aren’t listed somewhere. Well, you are over four hundred years old. I guess not every general made it into the history books.”

Castiel’s pencil flew over the canvas, leaving behind barely visible markings. He was working on Dean’s hands, and he stuck his tongue out as he concentrated. He glanced back and forth several times, and he found his canvas sketch to be on point.

“Your hands are the bane of my existence,” Castiel commented. “Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but they’re impossible to get right. They look so strong, but the way your fingers are delicately curled over the hilt of the sword, I bet you know how to touch someone just right.”

Castiel cleared his throat and glanced up and down the hall. It was one of those rare occasions when he was the only student in the room.

“I bet those hands could be rough one minute and tender the next. Powerful enough for hand to hand combat, but deft enough to wield a blade with precision.”

Castiel lowered his voice. “I bet those hands would wield _me_ with precision.” He laughed. “That doesn’t even make sense.” He shook his head at his own nonsense.

He paused in his sketching, and then added a mark for the buttons on Dean’s coast so that it could be the reference point for the rest of Dean’s hands. He smoothed his finger over the top of the sketched left hand. Then he glanced at the oil painting. Shooting furtive glances to either side, he verified again that he was alone. He stepped close to the painting, closer than he’d ever been before, and a raised a hand. His fingers hovered a scant inch away from the thin layer of paint that somehow brought such life to a pair of hands that had been gone for over four centuries. He stopped just before he touched them. The paintings might be touch alarmed.

Castiel pulled his hand back and then took a couple of steps away. He looked up at the portrait. From this angle the general didn’t seem angry anymore, but his look was still heated.

“I think I like this angle too,” Castiel whispered.

~~~

“Castiel,” his mother sighed through his tablet screen. “It’s only a five hour trip; you should come home. You only have one free week a quarter, and we haven’t seen you since you left.”

“You see me almost every day.”

“Video chatting is not the same. I want to hug my Buzzy Boy.”

“Mom,” Cas groaned softly, blushing hotly. “I was in that play in _first year_. Let it go already.”

“But you were so cute! With your little yellow and black striped shirt and springy antennae.”

“Mom. Come on. I’ll come home for the second quarter break. I’ll be there for Musesday.”

“I’m still upset you won’t be around for Devil Banishing.”

“I’ll banish the Devil here, I promise. But I’ve got to use this week to work on my final project. I won’t have classes and the place will be empty, so I’ll be able to work uninterrupted.”

“You still have most of the year to complete it.”

“Mom, I’m trying to copy a Master work. And not just any Master. Master Lucifer. Anything I do will be a pale shadow of what he did but, I still have to do my best.”

“Anything you do will be better than any old Master. Living or dead.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Cas said dryly, but he was still touched by her faith in him. “So, is anything going on at home?”

“Hmm, let’s see…your father added a new ship to his fleet. I think I might finally be able to convince him to hire a manager so that he’ll take a break. Your brother is applying to architecture school, so maybe he’ll be in Caelus in the spring.”

“That would be great.”

“Your other brother still has a few weeks left on his sentence, but they might let him out early for Devil Banishing. Your eldest sister says the wedding is back on, but I wouldn’t put in a request to leave school for the wedding just yet. And your aunt and uncle are trying to talk with some people with restaurants up north to start serving raw fish like we eat. But you know how squeamish northerners are.”

“Tell me about it. The food at the academy is good, but they’re not near the ocean. I haven’t had any decent seafood since I left home.”

“Poor baby. I’ll send you some smoked swordfish.”

“Thanks.”

“Hmm, anything else…oh! Your sister is pregnant. Again.”

“Which one?”

His mother sighed. “Does it matter?”

~~~

“Fuck!”

Castiel threw his brush and it just barely missed the portrait of the Viridoctrin general by a few inches. Castiel felt his heart actually stop for a moment. He’d very nearly defaced a priceless work of art. He’d been working on his copy for six days in a row, nearly twelve hours a day. He’d put oil to canvas the day before, but he had to draw up short. He was already fucking it up. Those Muse damn hands.

Castiel stepped forward and picked up the brush. He rubbed at the mark on the wall with a finger, trying to draw up the paint. Then he turned dejectedly and sat on his mini stool. He slumped forward and put his face in his hands. He felt the urge to cry, but he held it together.

“This doesn’t bode well,” the familiar voice of Campbell said.

Castiel wasn’t even surprised he was there. Hopefully he’d missed the temper tantrum and only saw the aftermath. He sat up and saw Campbell examining his canvas from the side rather than front on. He looked back at Castiel.

“What’s the problem?” Campbell asked with mock sweetness in his voice.

“The hands. The whole painting. I suck.”

“How so?”

“I’m not getting it right. Every time I work on them, there’s just something off about them. Like, I’m always off by about an eighth of an inch or something. I thought my eye was better than that. But look at this.”

Castiel dug around in his bag for his old sketches. He pulled them out and showed them to Campbell.

“Look, I’ve drawn his hands every day for weeks now. And from day to day I can’t even draw them the same.”

“They look the same to me.”

“No, look, look. This painting is beyond my skill level. Master Lucifer painted it so brilliantly that my puny brain can’t even comprehend it. I just make stuff up every time I do it. I do only what I’m capable of, which is clearly not what Master Lucifer made.”

Campbell rubbed his chin as he looked at the sketches. Then he glanced at Castiel’s canvass, and then at the original. He walked up to the wall to the right of the painting and pulled the bottom slightly out so he could look behind it. Apparently the paintings weren’t alarmed. Then Campbell examined the frame. Then he bent close and put his eyes so close to the bottom corner they almost crossed. Campbell reached a hand back and crooked a finger at him.

Castiel walked closer. Campbell stood up and pointed to the corner of the painting.

“Look at this.”

Castiel looked at the dark edge of the painting and then back at Campbell.

“Look at what?”

Campbell opened his mouth and then just shrugged.

“I don’t understand what you want me to look at.”

Campbell nodded his head toward the painting and gave him big eyes. He opened his mouth and then closed it helplessly. Castiel recognized the same kind of things he did the one time he tried to ask Meg about Art outside of the classroom. Castiel bent down and looked closely at the painting. He could see clear brushstrokes; there were no words. Then he looked at where the canvas began to disappear behind the frame. His eyes crossed and he saw the letters L-O, but then they blended back together. Castiel stood up, surprise written on his features. He opened his mouth, but found himself unable to speak.

“Come with me to the classroom,” Campbell said.

Despite being on summer to fall break, the Academy was still full of people and bustling with activity. They made their way without talking to the concrete addition on the back end of the east wing. As soon as they crossed the threshold and shut the door behind them, Castiel couldn’t hold it back.

“That portrait is Art!”

“Apparently,” Campbell agreed. “Once they get old enough, Art can often be put into normal gallery rotations. After all, spellwork affecting events hundreds of years ago can’t affect anything today.”

“I’m just surprised to learn _that_ painting is Art; it’s so…good.”

Campbell smirked at him. “You think Art is bad?”

Castiel shrugged. “It’s soulless.”

“With good reason. What’s the first lesson when making Art?”

“Don’t influence the act with personal emotion.”

“Exactly. The last thing you want when painting the outcome of a negotiation is to have everything fall apart because the Artist’s sympathies align differently.”

“I understand. But, that painting is full of emotion.”

Campbell raised one shoulder. “Master Lucifer had the kind of talent that couldn’t be repressed. Also, maybe emotion was important. It doesn’t look like that painting is an act, just a portrait. Maybe the emotion was put in there to sway the general to leniency or mercy.”

“Oh.”

“And that probably explains your hands trouble. They might…actually be moving.”

“What?! That’s possible?!”

“Shh.” Campbell rubbed his pinky finger in his ear. “Not what you’re thinking. The painting— _he_ , the general, is not actually _moving_. Just the residual spellwork is having a slight effect on it. You’ll probably find that the hands are only changing between two positions. Maybe three.”

“Fantastic.”

“This is a good thing. Every replica should always be unique in some way. It should never be a direct copy. That’s fraud after all.”

Castiel returned Campbell’s amused smirk.

“This way you can make the hands yours. Paint them how you want them and don’t worry about what Lucifer did with them. His original is gone, distorted by the power of Art.”

“Hmm. So, someone did that to his painting?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure he did it himself.”

“So…it’s possible to be a Master Artist, and still be a Master of art.”

Campbell held his arms out to indicate himself. “Did you ever doubt it?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “No, Master.”

“Brat. Go back to work.”

“Oh, can I ask one more thing?”

Campbell sighed dramatically. “Fine. What?”

“Do you know anything about the subject of the painting? Whenever I look up General Dean Winchester, I only get information about the painting itself. When I looked up Viridoctrin generals from that time period, I can’t find a reference to him.”

Campbell shrugged. “He must not have been important.”

“But his portrait was done by a Master Artist.”

“Maybe Lucifer just thought he was pretty.”

“But, there’s spell work in it. Why would he spell a painting if it was for personal pleasure?” Castiel’s eyes widened. “Do you think he abused his power?”

Campbell looked at him for a long moment that Castiel didn’t quite understand.

“I suppose anything is possible,” Campbell finally conceded. “But, since it is Art, if it’s legitimate, it’ll be in the records. All works of Art have a written record that details the date, subject, and situation. The older records are kept in the basement of the library. Just tell whoever is working the desk that I said you can see them, and they’ll take you down.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure. Whatever you think will help you with your project. But after you finish there, go back and clean up your mess in the Hall.”

Castiel nodded as Campbell turned and started to leave the addition.

“And no more throwing paint around like a wild thing,” he called over his shoulder. “You could be incarcerated for destroying national treasures.”

Castiel covered his face with his hands, mortified. He prayed to the Muses that Campbell wouldn’t spread that story around. He considered going directly to the Hall of Portraits to clean up his supplies, but he still had a few hours of painting left in him. So, he decided to go to the library to learn about General Winchester, and hopefully that would give him some inspiration. It was definitely a relief to know that he could take creative license with the hands now—he had been about to punch a hole through the canvas. His own or the original he wasn’t certain. No, his own. He couldn’t deface Dean like that. Aggravating hands or not, he was a wonder and the world deserved to see him. He wondered how they decided what pieces went on traveling exhibitions. _The Viridoctrin General_ deserved to be seen by everyone.

The International Academy of Art’s library was in a building completely separate from the school itself. Their collections of materials had grown so large that several decades ago the Academy had commandeered what had formerly been the mayor’s residence and pressed it into service as storage before finally converting it into the marvel is was today. It was usually high up on tourist hot spot lists.

The library was about five thousand square feet and with the exception of two bathrooms and the original kitchen, every room had been stuffed floor to ceiling with shelves full of books, catalogues, collections, textbooks, histories, reviews, appraisals, and almost anything else that had to do with the medium of art.

Castiel had made use of the watercolor selection quite a bit and felt that he’d learned a trick or two to improve his technique. It must have done some good because Castiel had been invited to stay for the second quarter. So had Charlie and Henry, but five of their classmates had been sent home and not asked to return after the break.

With most of the students being on break, the library was oddly still and quiet when Castiel entered. Only one person manned the circulation desk when usually there were three or four. She was a middle-aged woman with a sour expression, but she’d always been nice to Castiel even though everyone else claimed she was a witch.

“Hello, Mrs. Uvam.”

“First year,” she addressed him as she did everyone in their first year.

“Cam—Master Campbell said that there are histories of Art stored in the basement. He said that I could use them for research and that you’d know where they are.”

“Art histories, or Art histories with a capital A?”

“Capital A.”

“Hn,” she grunted. She reached under the desk and pulled out a pair of white cloth gloves. “There’s a door with a ‘no admittance’ sign next to the downstairs bathroom. It’s unlocked. Go down those stairs and you’ll find the stacks. They’re arranged by century, and then by Master name. If you handle anything older than a hundred years, use these.” She handed him the gloves.

“Um, thanks.”

Castiel found the door to the basement easily and apprehensively turned the knob. He was disappointed by the silent sound of the door swinging open on well-oiled hinges onto brightly lit, sturdy stairs. So much for an adventure into a creepy, lost catacomb. He clomped down the stairs and was rewarded with at least a bit of a musty smell of old leather and parchment paper. The stacks were also well lit and well organized, just as promised. That was seriously taking the fun out of this quest. He did notice that the walls of the storage space didn’t match the walls of the house. If Castiel had to guess, nearly half the space potentially available was blocked off. Who built a basement and only used half the space available? Maybe the other part was full of load bearing columns. Or bodies.

Castiel smiled to himself and walked down the 600 CE aisle, looking for Master Lucifer’s name. He really needed Charlie to come back. He was filling his head with crazy conspiracy theories in her absence. He missed her, and they hadn’t even been apart a week.

Castiel found the tab that marked the beginning of Master Lucifer’s work. There was only a single volume before the next tab started. Apparently the guy was not prolific. Or maybe he'd spent most of his time making real art and not Art. Castiel slipped on the gloves and pulled the book off the shelf. He started to flip through the book looking for _The Viridoctrin General_ , but was immediately distracted by other works. Even though they were miniature copies carved into woodblocks for printing, they were impressive. It seemed like with the new technology available to them the Academy would take photographs of the actual works and put them into new books. Until he realized that Master Lucifer had actually written the descriptions himself. Castiel looked around, amazed. The great Masters of old had actually held these books and written in them. He wondered if Michamusa had been an Artist. Then Castiel might be able to see his handwriting in life.

The turn of the next page prevented him from abandoning his original goal. There was the painting of Dean—a pretty terrible rendition of it in print block format, but it was still apparent that it was the painting he’d been staring at for weeks now. He eagerly turned his eyes to the description and was disappointed to find two short paragraphs.

_General Dean Winchester of the Royal Viridoctrin Armies, 31 years of age. Began: Third week of Umbrary. Finished: The eve of the Battle of the Seals. Duration: approximately two weeks. Medium: oil on canvas. Purpose: to influence behavior after the battle’s outcome. The general is being imbued with composure, steadiness, and temperance._

_Outcome: The general deserted his troops before morning dawned on the day of the battle. Without clear direction, two-thirds of the Royal Army was slaughtered by the Tartarese and all plans for a peace treaty have been scrapped. Winchester has been labeled a traitor and stripped of his rank and decorations by the Viridoctrins. Should he be found, it has been decreed that he shall be executed by firing squad or hanging. It appears that imbuing the general with steadiness and composure before the end of the battle allowed him to become resolved in his doubts and facilitated his decision to desert. In the future, influence should not be applied until the situation it is meant to affect has actually taken place._

This was not what Castiel had been expecting. He was so shocked from learning about the general’s cowardice that he couldn’t even be properly amazed by the fact that Lucifer had created the masterpiece in two weeks’ time. Dean didn’t look like a coward or a deserter. And yet, he looked sorrowful in his portrait. Maybe he’d already made up his mind and felt guilty for his decision, although he’d never seen guilt in Dean’s eyes or expression from any angle.

Castiel closed the book and put it back on the shelf. This put a damper on his spirits. Not only for his final project, but for learning Art in general. The Artists in that time had played with the natural course of human events, and it had backfired horribly. Then again, maybe Dean would have deserted anyway and the spell work just made it easier for him to do it. Giving someone composure, steadiness, and temperance couldn’t affect a man’s plans or even his actions. It just gave him the opportunity to think about his decisions before he made them with a clear head; which meant that General Winchester had truly meant to desert, and it hadn’t just been a moment of weakness.

Castiel dawdled on his way back to the Hall of Portraits. He was glum and disappointed and wasn’t sure how to feel about his work. He hadn’t actually been betrayed by Dean. It was still a beautiful painting, one worth keeping around even if it was a picture of a reviled traitor. He supposed he hadn’t betrayed Occimundi and Master Lucifer was the greatest artist (or Artist) to ever live, so why wouldn’t they display it? It wasn't like art was only meant to represent the good of the world. There was plenty of art that depicted the cruelties innate to mankind. The fact that Dean was a good, kind man was something that Castiel had invented in his head. He shouldn’t be saddened to find out his imagination had been wrong.

He stood in front of the portrait and was sad though. He scowled up at the beautiful villain.

“You’re a deserter. A coward. No wonder you shift around so much—you’re inconstant.”

The face of the general remained impassive. Had he really been expecting a reaction? Castiel sighed and packed up his supplies. He didn’t feel like working anymore. He’d pick it up again when the new quarter started. Once he had everything ready to go, Castiel hesitated as he looked at the portrait yet again. He was avoiding Dean’s sorrowful eyes; they still made him feel sorry for the guy. He leaned his canvas up against the wall and got as close to the original as possible.

He looked in the corner again, trying to find the words. He looked closely at the detail of the general’s coat, the shine on the buttons, and the weave of the cloth. He thought he saw glimpses of letters, but other times he thought he saw—symbols. Not just random marks because the symbols were repeated, but they were nonsense.

After a while his strained eyes began to throb and he knew he needed to give up. He’d already moved on from the general himself to the room he stood in to see if he could find any other spell work that might explain why the general had deserted. He gave himself five more minutes of looking, and then he was going to stop. He only needed two minutes.

The firelight from a candle gleamed on the brass plate of the doorknob on the door to the room. It was so lifelike it filled Castiel with despair of his own talent again. But the contrast between the dark wood door and the bright reflection made the dull shadowy words in the keyhole stand out rather than blend in—if one knew what one was looking for. Castiel did and he saw it clearly: LOCK.

Castiel stood up and rubbed his eyes, and then he looked again. The door to the room had definitely been spelled to be locked. Maybe Master Lucifer had done it to keep people from interrupting him while he’d worked. Castiel shook his head and gathered up his canvas. He didn’t have enough brain power to focus on the weirdness of the portrait anymore that night.


	3. Part III: The Power of Art

“So, all I have to do is let the program finish running…” Charlie trailed off as the code on her screen ran so fast Castiel couldn’t read what any of it said. Then the computer beeped and the screen stopped moving. In the bottom left corner next to the blinking cursor was the phrase _Umporia69!_

“Professor Nates,” Charlie intoned, “you kinky freak.”

“What? What does that mean?” Cas asked, shuffling his knees on the hard marble floor next to Charlie’s desk. The carpet was providing zero padding for his patella.

“Umporia? It’s the pairing name for Umbra and Aporia. And please tell me you know what 69 is a reference to.”

“Pairing names…for Muses? Like how you want that guy and that girl on that show to get together and it’s like PigFart or something?”

“Peegfarcht. For Nolan Peegima and Shandra Thwaitfarcht. They belong together.”

“Isn’t Shandra gay?”

“What? No. N—no…Why do you think that?”

“Because she’s always making eyes at that lawyer chick.”

“Oh, Muses. You pair Farchtallon, don’t you?”

Castiel gave Charlie a bemused look. “No. I don’t. I don’t care. At all. About any—”

“I got it,” Charlie shoved a face in his hand. “Anyway, here we go. I take the password and enter it into the mainframe using Professor Nates’ username. Now, I’m in his account.”

“Holy shit.”

“Then, I navigate to my project, change the date to show that it was received at 11:57pm, before the midnight deadline, do a quick save, log off, and boom! Problem solved.”

Castiel stared at the computer, not really believing what he was seeing. “I can’t believe I’ve known you for almost half a year and I never knew you were some kind of hacking criminal mastermind.”

“Please. Changing the date so I don’t fail a project for no _good_ reason is not criminal activity.”

“Have you _done_ criminal activity?”

Charlie got an anxious look on her face and looked away. She tried to toss her red hair over her shoulder as she still wasn’t used to having it all hacked off.

“No, of course not,” she said in a nervous voice that clearly indicated she had.

“Charlieeeee....”

“Oh, my muze, I made a fake ID once so I could drink early. Sue me.”

“That’s not so bad. No one even cares about that kind of thing.”

“Welllllll…it wasn’t exactly a _fake_ ID. I hacked the IDO’s system and made a totally legitimate ID card for myself.”

She smiled uneasily at him. Castiel blinked.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Charlie Middleton.” She gave him a wink. “I swear.”

Castiel’s chuckle turned into a grimace as his knees protested when he stood up. He hobbled to Charlie’s bed and she grinned at him.

“You doing okay there, old man?”

“Bite me. What happened to your window bench?”

“I sacrificed it to the Muses of Art.”

Castiel snorted.

“No, seriously, I broke it apart and used it in my sculpture. I can’t believe I pulled sculpture. I’d rather do watercolors.”

“Whatever, I’m drowning in digital art.”

“I’m keeping you afloat, sailor boy. Don’t worry.”

“Yeah, thanks, I appreciate it.”

“I’m sure. You won’t even play _Zombie Fairy Land 2_ with me.”

“Next time. It’s like, three in the morning.”

“Wuss. Is there anything you’re curious about while I’m in the mainframe?”

“Tons of stuff, but we can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because…” Castiel sat up. “Can you access the locks in the Art building?”

“That concrete addition where you have your Art classes?”

“Yep.”

“Hmm. They keep it locked up?”

“The doors. And some vaults.”

Charlie clicked around a bit and Castiel slid up her bed to rest his head on her pillows. He liked how the marble pattern on the ceiling was different in everyone’s room. Not that he’d looked at a lot of other classmate’s ceilings, but Ozma’s was especially entertaining. Which was useful for when Ozma and Charlie got absorbed in talking about something or other and practically forgot Cas was also in the room.

“Ah, easy. It’s totally electronically controlled. The door to the room, and the vaults.”

Castiel sat up. “The vaults require four different keys to be turned at the same time and a voice command to open.”

“Well, as long as we have the person with the voice, sending the computer a signal that the locks have been activated is easy.”

Castiel wondered if any of the other Masters knew that.

“Why are there such serious locks on those vaults anyway?” Charlie asked.

“They contain the current pieces of governing Art.”

“Ah. Don’t want those tampered with even accidentally.”

“Exactly.”

“But who cares? If they were enough to inspire people to behave in the first place, what different does it make if people look at them or something?”

Castiel opened his mouth, couldn’t speak, and shrugged even though her back was to him. Charlie closed the school’s mainframe and turned in her chair to face Cas.

“You’re still being gloomy. You haven’t been fun all quarter.”

“Yes, I have.”

“Well, you’ve been a little fun. But you’re still bummed about your Latex Lover.”

“My what?” Castiel laughed. “Oh, Muses, the general. For one thing, he’s oil, not latex.”

“Whatever.”

“And for another, I’m not gloomy, I’m just curious. I mean, it’s terrible that he deserted and people died, but maybe he had a reason. Maybe he was kidnapped. Maybe he was blackmailed.”

“Maybe you’re obsessed.”

“Maybe. “

They grinned at each other.

“I just wish I knew more about him,” Castiel complained. “It’s almost like the Viridoctrins erased him from existence. The only proof he ever lived is that painting by Master Lucifer.”

“Maybe he never did exist. He is unnaturally beautiful. Maybe Master Lucifer made him up.”

“Mm, I don’t think so. Plus, the Battle of the Seals is a real event and the Viridoctrins were slaughtered. Although they don’t say anything about a deserter, just that General Lafitte was overwhelmed by Tartarus’ forces.”

“Well, that sucks. So what about his family? They might have erased him from the books, but maybe he has descendants--parents, siblings, a wife, children or something.”

“Hmm, I never considered that.”

Charlie turned back to her computer.

“You don’t have to look now,” Castiel pointed out.

Charlie ignored him, so he turned over and hugged a pillow to his chest and let himself fall asleep. He woke in the morning to find Charlie curled up tightly in a ball on the other side of the double bed. He smiled as he saw her drooling onto her pillow. Blackmail material. He reached out a hand and smoothed her messy hair behind an ear.

“Charlie.”

“Hmm?”

“It’s morning. And you let me spend the night. In your bed.”

“Scandalous, isn’t it? Maybe now Ozma will shut up about us being a fake couple.”

“But we _are_ a fake couple.”

“Meh.”

Charlie finally opened her eyes and stretched. She smiled her best infectious smile and Castiel had to succumb to it.

“Alright,” he said. “What do you want to do today? Finals are submitted, break starts in two days, so we’ve got to get some hang time together before we head home.”

“Actually, I’m staying here this break.”

“Really? Why?”

“The regular trains can’t go that far north because of the snows this time of year, and we can’t afford a plow train.”

“Oh, bummer. You won’t be home for Musesday.”

“Nope. First time, too.”

“So…you’ll be here alone?”

She shrugged. “You did it. I can entertain myself. I can do some digging on Samuel Milton Winchester for you.” She gave him an eyebrow waggle.

Castiel propped himself up on one arm, feeling very awake all of a sudden.

“Who is Samuel Milton Winchester?”

“He is the younger brother of your elusive Viridoctrin general.”

“No shit. How’d you find him?”

“He was at the Battle of the Seals. He’s the one who managed to save the remaining army by negotiating a deal with the Tartarese. He was only a sergeant, a pretty low rank, but he was the highest ranking officer still alive by the time they surrendered. He was hailed as a hero of that battle. Rather than total annihilation, some of those soldiers got to go home, and it opened up the possibility of the Viridoctrin government parlaying with the Tartarese. I guess it worked because the Viri-Tarto War ended the same year as that battle.”

“Is it possible they just share the same last name?”

“Maybe, but Winchester is a pretty uncommon surname in Viridoctrin. Also, the Viridoctrins are really big on genealogy. I mean _real_ big. Everyone whoever received the rank of any kind of officer is listed with his family tree going back generations, complete with names and dates of birth and death. So, the fact that Samuel’s family tree shows that he had an older brother, but there’s no name or any other information is really odd. I’m surprised they didn’t outright deny that Samuel ever had a brother at all. But then, I guess their records being incomplete is less of a sin than being inaccurate.”

“So, does he have any current descendants?”

“I haven’t checked that part yet. I’ve got his history up until the battle. It’s a little harder to find records for the ten to fifteen years following the war because the Tartarese really screwed them over. But, I can dig while you’re off enjoying that warm southern winter.”

“You do realize that it does get to freezing temperatures down there, right?”

“You do realize that where I come from, freezing temperatures are practically tropical, right?”

“I think you need to actually go to the tropics.”

“Uckgh.”

Castiel laughed and then yawned. “Ugh. Have we missed breakfast?”

Charlie moved her hand to check Cas’ wristwatch. “We got fifteen minutes.”

“Crud. I guess we better get up.”

~~~

“Ugh, I think I’m rethinking my decision,” Charlie said as they walked through the Academy’s main hall, Castiel pulling his suitcase behind him. “I should go home with you.”

“You still can. The bus doesn’t come for another half hour. You can pack a bag.”

“Nah, I can’t crash your parents’ place like that. Bring me back something ocean-y.”

“Have you ever seen the ocean?”

“Not in person.”

“You should really come visit with me sometime.”

“I will. Maybe after we survive our first year. Honestly, I probably ought to use this time to work on my final project. I’ve got the base down, but the details are killing me. Oils are worse than watercolors. You can’t control them.”

“Sure you can. You scrape them off and paint over them and blend them to something new.”

“I can’t see that the way you can. Like how you still can’t understand how digital layers work.”

“Yes, I do,” Cas said indignantly. “I mean, _now_.”

“Sure, sure. Anyway, I’ll spend my break in the Hall of Portraits. Or the library. I wanna see if any of the history textbooks have Samuel Winchester in them.”

“Sounds like it’ll be an exciting week.”

“Maybe I’ll download a new game.”

“Oh!” Castiel had an epiphany as they arrived at the pick-up zone for the bus to the train station. “We still have like twenty-five minutes, right?”

“According to the schedule.”

“Probably longer,” said a second year relaxing on the curb. “The bus is always late.”

“Then why are you out here already?” Charlie asked.

The guy shrugged. “Because one day it might be early.”

Charlie and Cas exchanged looks, but didn’t comment.

“Um, would you mind watching my bag? I just need to show her something in the library.”

The guy shrugged.

“Okay.” Castiel grabbed Charlie’s hand and took off for the library. “Come on, hurry up!”

“Castiel! I am indoorsy! I don’t run!”

They hurried across the park to where the library sat opposite of the Academy by about two hundred yards. They were both out of breath when they arrived and the stairs nearly ended their escapade.

“Maybe we ought to start working out,” Castiel panted as he dragged Charlie inside.

“M-may-maybe you…aw, fuck it.”

Cas walked up to the circulation desk. Only Mrs. Uvam was on the desk as most of the library staff had already cleared out for the break.

“Hi, Mrs. Uvam. Can I have a pair of gloves?”

The woman fished out a pair and eyed Charlie as she gave them to Castiel. “Is she going down?”

“Yeah. Cam—Master Campbell said it was okay. She’ll be here over the break alone, and she needs to be able to do some research.”

“Okay then.”

Castiel led Charlie to the basement stairs and followed behind her as she walked down.

“Is it okay to say that Master Campbell said I can be here?” she asked.

“He doesn’t care. And there’s nothing secret down here. Well, not really. But it’s really cool. These are the records of all the Art made since the Dawn of Enlightenment. Written in the Masters own hands. You can actually touch the very paper that Master Raphael touched seven hundred years ago. Well, kind of. You have to wear the gloves to touch books older than a hundred years.”

“Weird set up,” Charlie murmured. “What’s with all the walls? They’re wasting all that space.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. Anyway, it’s sorted by century and then by Master. And it’s awesome.”

Charlie pulled a book off the shelf from the current century and randomly flipped it open.

“’The Passing of the Non-Proliferation Bill.’ Sexy name for a painting. ‘The Seven Seal nations, Pingary 2nd, 1067 CE.’ Hmm. This is only ten years old. It should still be active.”

Castiel looked at the tab on the shelf. “Master Freeman painted that one,” Castiel said.

“She’s good with faces,” Charlie commented. “Oh, look at this. ‘The representatives are being imbued with honesty, virtue, and good will. Outcome: The discussions took longer than expected due to a little too much honesty, but a unanimous vote passed the bill. Plans for portraits of the nations’ leaders need to be commissioned.’ Like, it sounds like she’s saying she put these feelings in the painting rather than putting what she saw on canvas.”

Castiel found that he couldn’t speak.

“Weird.” Charlie shut the book and put it back on the shelf. “What’re all of those?”

Castiel turned his head and saw the row of bookshelves to his left. “More of the same, I guess.”

“No, seven centuries on this side, three on that side. That leaves four shelves of what?”

“I don’t know. You better check it out.”

“I will. Thanks for the access.”

“No problem. Have fun. I’ve gotta run or I might miss my bus.”

“Have a good time back home. And Merry Musesday.”

“Merry Musesday to you too.”

They leaned forward and kissed each other’s cheeks, and then Castiel was taking the stairs two at a time.

~~~

The train glided into the station and Castiel felt like he hadn’t seen the place in years. His world view had shifted so much since he had learned about the power of Art that he didn’t feel like he was the same person he had been half a year ago. Maritima hadn’t changed though.

The salty smell of the ocean air was muted somewhat by the winter, but he breathed it in deeply, immediately feeling like he was home. The train station was downright abandoned compared to the constant chaos of Caelus’ Central Station. The old man who busked for spare change with his saxophone was right where Castiel had last seen him: leaning against the wall by the west entrance, playing a soft, soothing melody. Through the windows--unusually small due to the hurricane activity in the summer and fall--Castiel could see the white caps forming on a choppy grey sea. The sky was slate grey and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Castiel was still in a good mood. The gloomy weather meant it was Musesday time on the southern coast. Who needed snow? They had sleet.

Castiel exited the terminal and saw his eldest siblings, Gabriel and Hester, walking up the ramp to meet him. They were moving slowly since Hester was seven months pregnant. In his peripheral vision, he caught a sudden movement. When he turned to look, he saw his brothers Ion and Inias approaching with excited steps. Castiel whipped his head to the left, there were the twins, Hannah and Hanna. Castiel stopped moving, and four hands grabbed him from behind.

He shouted and twisted out of his coat, and Muriel and Bartholomew lost their grip on him for a moment. But the delay in struggling out of his coat was enough for the other four to catch him. They started wrestling him out of his clothes and he screamed and shouted and told them they were all crazy. Gabriel and Hester finally reached him and Hester pulled his shoes and socks off as his siblings hoisted him into the air. They carried him down the ramp, and then down the embankment to the pedestrian dock.

“No, nooooo!”

“Wait!” Gabriel’s voice commanded.

All the Novaks froze. Gabriel stepped forward, and for a fleeting moment, Castiel felt a foolish glimmer of hope. But all the dickbag did was pull off his skivvies.

“Okay.”

Castiel yelled and struggled some more, but against eight assholes, he was helpless. With a heave-ho he was tossed into an icy ocean grave. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his heart had in fact stopped for a moment from the shock. It was so cold he almost couldn’t feel it right away. And then he kicked his way to the top, dragged in a breath, and let out a hoarse wail as the cold penetrated him to the marrow. He barely had the ability to move his limbs enough to swim the few yards it took until he could stand on the bottom. Then he fought against the waves and whimpered as the air hit his skin—it was colder than the damn water. He hurried as quickly as he could to his waiting group of siblings and flung himself into the large, warm blanket they held. His feet were put into slippers, a towel was dropped on his head, and then all eight squeezed him in a tight, warm circle, laughing and talking to him all at once. Their collective heat warmed his body, but his teeth still chattered.

“I-I-h-hate all-of-f-f y-y-ou.”

His siblings had a good laugh at that, and then he was bundled up and shoved into the back of Gabriel’s beat up old car.

“Somebody get my suitcase!” he reminded them.

Half an hour later he was in a pair of clean, warm pajamas and a fresh blanket sitting in front of a roaring fire, drinking his mother’s warm eggnog spiced with the good rum. His siblings were getting a scolding from his mother. Not a single one was under twenty nor did any of them still live under her roof, but they got theirs good. Castiel smiled as he sipped his drink and watched them scuff their toes. Served them right.

Dinner was a wild, loud affair and Castiel found that he was a little overwhelmed after spending so much of his time in the quiet calm of the Hall of Portraits. Everyone had a hundred questions for him, and he didn’t know the answers to most of them as he had literally not stepped foot outside of Viridis City in the six months he’d been in Caelus. No one really seemed to mind though once he told them that he’d painted the Falls of the Muses at sunrise.

Castiel had given up his apartment when he’d left for the Academy, so he stayed at his parents’ house and was more than happy to be tucked into bed by his mother. He was regretting not having his own place to go to the next morning when everyone left him in charge of his eleven nieces and nephews as they had to work a couple more days before the holiday break. Fortunately nine of them were old enough to be carted off to school for the day and the youngest was still so young she just wanted to sleep and have a bottle occasionally. The problem was his niece Ambriel. She was three years old and hadn’t stopped talking from the day she’d learned how.

He sat in his father’s study with Ambriel in his lap, her dark hair and almond shaped eyes giving away that Hanna had gotten back together with her Vocivot ex-boyfriend for at least the romp in the hay that had knocked her up. He had his sketches of his final project laid out in front of him. He was still trying to decide what to do about Dean’s hands.

“Who’szat?” Ambriel asked, putting a chubby little hand on the sketch closest to her.

“His name is Dean.”

“Iz he your fwiend?”

“Um. Yeah, I guess so. He’s a friend. He’s been with me more than anyone else at school anyway,” he said with a laugh.

Ambriel giggled too though he was certain she didn’t understand why she was laughing. Castiel bounced her on his lap to keep her happy and pondered the sketches in front of him. He saw Dean’s eyes and nose with the little bump in it and his lips and ears. He was all there, but it wasn’t the same. Whether or not it meant he was crazy was beside the point; he could talk to Dean endlessly while he worked in front of his portrait. But he never talked to the sketches of him. Or even his own copy even though he had most of the face filled in. None of them had _presence_ like the original. It felt like he was actually talking to the man when he was with the portrait.

He knew that was just due to Master Lucifer’s skill, but he also couldn’t help but notice how markedly different a simple drawing of Dean was compared to the portrait itself now that he was out of the Academy. There was something about being at the International Academy of Art that breathed a kind of life into all the paintings that hung on its walls and the sculptures that stood in its courtyards. Then again, maybe it was just the spell work rolling off the Artwork.

The second to last week of Art class before the break he’d received a shock to learn that sculptures could be imbued with spell work as well. That rest of that week he’d had nightmares about statues coming to life and chasing him around the galleries. He could feel disembodied hands grabbing his wrists and dragging him under. It had continued until he’d confided in Campbell and the man had called him a halfwit and a nincompoop. Who even used those words anymore?

“Can I pway wif Dean?” Ambriel asked.

“Oh, I wish you could, sweetheart, but Dean…Dean is really, really far away.”

“Oh.”

The kid sounded really sad. He hugged her closer.

“I know how you feel.”

Traitor, deserter, whatever he may be, he listened to Cas without complaint or judgment. That was a rare thing to have, even in friendship.

Castiel stood up and tossed Ambriel over his shoulder. She giggled excitedly.

“Okay. That’s it. I’m actually thinking of four hundred year old dead guys as friends. I need a life. Let’s go see if Balthazar is still hanging around this town. Okay?”

“Okay!” the amiable girl agreed.

~~~

Castiel had to make the trip back to Caelus with a second suitcase because he couldn’t fit all of his Musesday gifts in the one he’d brought with him. It was mostly new clothes from his mother, but his siblings had gone out of their way to buy him some pretty fancy art supplies. Balthazar had gifted him with an “Emergency Sex Kit” because he was disappointed to learn that Castiel had not tapped a single hot artist ass since he’d gone off to school. The kit contained lube and a dildo, and Castiel had barely gotten it hidden before his mother had come into the room. Sometimes he hated his best friend. He doubted Charlie would have given him a dildo for Musesday. Although…maybe.

The ripe fields of rice and wheat looked exactly the same as they had six months ago. He wondered if he’d just hit the cycle at the same time both times or if the fields were always ripe. It made him wonder a little bit about the food he ate at the Academy.

He didn’t have to wait at the train station for any other returning students, and there were only three people on the bus with him to the city center. They both got off downtown. Castiel got off in front of the school, and while there wasn’t anyone specifically there to greet him, most of the other students had returned from break and the campus was filled with people bundled up against the chilly weather.

His dorm room was exactly as he’d left it except for the watercolor of a dark, starry sky hanging over his bed. Charlie must have put it up while he’d been away. There was a piece of paper tucked into the corner of the cheap frame she’d put the painting in. Castiel crawled onto the bed and pulled it out. He unfolded the small piece of paper and all that was written inside was  _We need to talk_.

~~~

“Dude. It feels like it’s been way longer than a week,” Charlie said, bouncing both Castiel and herself on her bed. “One, I found out some things about Samuel Winchester. Two, the Masters back in the day…were seriously disturbed.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, so I started looking through those old books down in the basement. I mean, of course I looked at the journals of the Masters, but I wanted to know what was on the four other bookshelves. They’re like…textbooks. Like really freaking old Art textbooks. And the people who wrote those books—no lie, they thought that they could actually _do_ things with Art. Or like, make things happen. By using words and symbols and stuff. Like, they thought if they spelled a rock to fall, it would fall. And if they spelled it to stay put it would stay put. Just by like, painting it. Can you believe that?”

Castiel couldn’t talk. He couldn’t respond even to deny it, the spell held him silent. Charlie raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response. Castiel shrugged.

“I mean, I get it, back then people thoughts witches and unicorns were real too, but seriously. This is like crazy kind of stuff.”

Castiel searched for words that the spell would let him say. “All of the books?”

“Oh, no. Most of them were normal techniques stuff. Just the ones shoved in the Art corner. Like, capital A Art. Like what you do. Have you used Art to make something happen?” she asked with a laugh.

Castiel was worried he’d have to stare dumbly at her again, but he did manage to say, “No,” which was the truth. He and Meg had been taught a lot about theory and technique, but they’d yet to be allowed to try it for themselves.

“Well, that’s disappointing, huh? Too bad it’s not real. Just imagine—we could paint a Humongum from Frosty Burgers here in the middle of the night.”

Castiel wanted to say that’s not how it worked, but, of course, he couldn’t.

“What would you want to pull through time and space? Oh, of course!” She nudged his shoulder and gave him an obnoxious smile. “Your general. I would be offended as your fake girlfriend, but the guy _is_ hot.”

Castiel shook his head, his jaw aching with the inability to speak. Charlie cocked her head.

“What’s wrong?”

Castiel shook his head again. Art couldn’t be used to paint things into existence or to access other times or places…could it? The Masters had never said it couldn’t, and he’d never asked. It seemed preposterous though. It sounded like the Masters back in the old days had discovered the power of Art and then made guesses that it could accomplish anything.

“Seriously, Cas, are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. I’m fine. I’m glad you enjoyed your research.”

“I did! But enough about that; we can talk about that stuff later. How was your trip home? Tell me again what exactly is this custom of throwing people into the ocean? Oh! Also, _Zombie Fairy Land_ playing party is happening this weekend. My room, you’re not invited, you are mandated to come. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it,” Cas said with a laugh.

“Cool. Oh, fudge—I almost forgot. Do we have any classes together? I know you’ve got Art for two, bleh. But are you taking figure drawing, charcoals, Paintshop, or 3D modeling?”

“No,” Castiel pouted. “Advanced oils and welding.”

“Bummer. But, oo. Welding could be fun.”

“If I don’t weld my foot to a metal plate.”

“Free shoes for life.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Why thank you, good sir.”

“So weird,” Castiel said as he got off the bed. “Let’s go get some dinner and I’ll tell you about how my siblings nearly murdered me.”

~~~

“So, as you can see,” Master Adler said even though he was completely covering his example on the chalkboard with his body, “if you simply write the words over and over on top of itself, the words get distorted and lose their power. The goal is to try to keep the words as distinct as possible while still getting them to blend into a solid object.”

Castiel’s head tilted forward and he felt his droopy eyelids surrendering to sleep. Something hit him upside the head and he sat up in just enough time to look alert as Master Adler glanced back at his two pupils.

“Any questions?”

Meg and Castiel shook their heads.

“Fantastic. Let’s move on to the letter C.”

Master Adler turned back around and Castiel rubbed his head where he still felt the echo of the blow that had awoken him. He glanced behind him and saw Campbell giving him a look. Castiel slumped down in his seat. If they were really going to learn Master Adler’s technique for how to best write and place every single letter of the alphabet, they’d just be getting to “Z” when his second year started.

“Master Adler, I have a question,” Castiel interrupted the professor and raised his hand.

Master Adler turned around, looking surprised, like he’d never been asked a question in his life.

“Uh, yes? C-C…uhh…”

“Clarence,” Meg said.

“Clarence,” Master Adler parroted with a smug smile, like he’d recalled the name himself.

Castiel shot Meg a look and she just smiled as she focused intently on her notes.

“Master Adler, is it possible to…paint something into existence?”

The Masters in the back of the room went still and Meg looked up from her ruse of taking notes.

“I don’t understand,” Master Adler said. “What do you mean? Do you have a question about the letters B or A? We’re not at E yet.”

“No. I mean like, if I were to paint an object, and then imbue it with exists, existence, and reality, would I make the object…appear? Or exist?”

“No, of course not.” Master Adler looked up at the others in the room. “Right?”

“No, Art doesn’t have that kind of power,” Master Shurley said, moving to the front of the classroom. “It only works on objects and people and events that already exist.”

Well, that did line up with the cause of failure for Dean’s portrait.

“And you couldn’t paint, for instance, my hair blue, and then have that become the reality. That’s why we spent the majority of the first quarter on color mixing. The closer the Art is to matching the scene, the more influence it will have. The Art has to match the reality, not the other way around.”

Castiel nodded. “I understand. One more question…”

“Yes?”

“I’m not saying I think I’m ready yet, because I don’t think I am, but…um…”

“When are you going to get to try it for yourself?” Master Shurley asked with a kind smile.

Castiel shrugged and Meg sat up straighter in her desk.

“Soon. Next quarter. Your final exam, in fact, will be to make a painting that will control the direction a ball will roll off a desk. If you’re successful, you’ll be invited to attend as a second year. And then we’ll really start working on imbuing paints.”

Castiel nodded and ignored his itchy fingers as best he could. Master Adler cleared his throat.

“If I may continue?”

Master Shurley smiled and stepped away. “Carry on, Zach.”

Master Adler frowned at the informal address, but then he turned back to the board and droned on. They’d only made it to F by the time class adjourned for lunch. Campbell left the classroom with him and gently took him by the elbow to keep him from leaving the Art addition.

“Can I ask what brought on your question about painting objects into existence?” Campbell asked.

Although he’d been cavalier about Campbell finding out that he’d let Charlie into the library basement a couple of weeks ago, facing him now he felt a little worried about getting them both into trouble. So, he shrugged and lied.

“I was just working late last night, after the cafeteria had closed, and I thought it would be awesome if I could paint a cheeseburger, and then eat it.”

Campbell laughed and released him. “If only it worked that way.”

“Yeah...Too bad, I guess.”

“Alright, have a good weekend. Oh, and Monday morning I’ll be checking on your final project progress. Before class. So make sure your ass is out of bed.”

“Yes, Master,” Castiel grumbled.

Campbell just chuckled as Castiel trudged out of the hallway.

~~~

“On my left, on my left!”

Castiel looked up from his sketchbook as everyone stuffed into Charlie’s dorm room screamed with terror as the bloodthirsty fairy clumsily flew into their group of soldiers on the screen. The zombie fairy starting ripping heads off and was soon joined by another who gutted the remainders. Everyone groaned as their party was dismantled before they even got to the Big Boss on level fourteen. It was just midnight and even though it was a Friday, most people begged off another go and shuffled out of the room.

Henry tapped Castiel on the shoulder. “We have group study on Sunday, yes?”

Castiel nodded. “One o’clock in the Copper Courtyard. See you then.”

Henry smiled and nodded his head toward Charlie, and then gave a leer that was oddly sweet on his young features. “You have…private party with Charlie now?”

“Get lost, you twerp.”

Henry pulled out the notepad he always carried with him and did his best to write down “twerp” without knowing how to spell it.

“I find out meaning. Maybe kick you in balls.”

Castiel gave him a thumbs up. Henry wandered out of the room. Charlie and Ozma remained on the floor in front of Charlie’s computer screen, which had been hooked up to her G-Box. They were pressed shoulder to shoulder and giggling softly as they switched to a game about rabbits skipping around gathering hearts and flowers, and then viciously shredding anyone who tried to take a dump on love. Literally. The game was quite crass.

After an hour, Castiel was fed up with Dean’s hands. He was ready to just slap anything on his replica and call it a day. He was about to announce that he was going to bed and let the girls play their silly game as long as they liked, but Charlie suddenly stiffened and scooted away from Ozma.

“Uh, yeah, someone’s cramping my style,” Charlie said with a strained laugh. “But it’s you. My boyfriend is hanging out alone on my bed. You’re kind of cockblocking me.”

“Oh.” Ozma looked very embarrassed. She stood up and apologized. Then she walked to Castiel and handed them the wireless control. “I guess she wants you.”

Then Ozma walked out the door, closing it behind her. Castiel looked at the closed door in confusion for a moment, and then he got up and sat down next to Charlie on the floor. She unpaused the game and he played just to give his hands something to do.

“What was that about?” Castiel asked. “She wasn’t cockblocking you.”

“I know. But…she said…she um…well, I think Ozma likes me.”

“You think?” Cas asked wryly and sliced open a caterpillar to collect its heart.

“No, I mean, _likes_ likes me.”

“I know, Charlie. We _all_ know. And so do you. Isn’t that why you’ve got me playing the part of uber understanding boyfriend?”

She sighed. “Yeah. And I do appreciate it. And I’m sorry if I’m like…pissing you off. Or, what’s that phrase, blue balling you? What does that even mean?”

“Well, you know how when you wrap a string or rubber band around your finger and you trap your blood in the tip, and it’ll turn purple? Well, blue balling is when the pressure builds up to be almost unbearable in the balls, but they get no relief from being able to come. So…”

“Oh…Gotcha. Why isn’t it called purple balling?”

“Alliteration, I guess.”

They played on for a few minutes, the tiny sounds of screaming butterflies the only sounds in the room. Then Charlie spoke again.

“I still want to know, are you mad at me? For doing that?”

“No, of course not. You’ve never indicated you want that from me, so I’ve never expected it. Besides, we aren’t _actually_ dating. Why do I always have to remind you?” he asked and nudged her shoulder playfully.

Charlie paused the game and Castiel turned his head to look at her.

“Thank you, Castiel. Really. I’m so grateful to have you. I love you. I really do.”

“I love you too,” Castiel replied, absolutely meaning it.

They stared at each other, the pale pink light from the game the only thing illuminating them. They were pressed close together, their faces a few inches apart. It was like some terrible movie or sitcom. They had no choice but to slowly lean into each other. Charlie tilted her head, so Castiel let his eyes start to slide closed. He leaned forward a little more, but the only butterflies in his stomach were like the butchered ones on the screen.

“Wait!” Charlie yelped.

Castiel jerked back and found Charlie flapping her hands in the air.

“Wait, wait. I can’t. I can’t!” She laughed hysterically. “I can’t. I’m gay. There. I said it. I’m gay. I totally like girls. I totally want to kiss Ozma and I do love you, Cas, but I don’t want to kiss you at all.”

“R-really?”

Charlie’s face crumbled to pain and concern. “I’m so sorr—”

“Oh, thank Muses!” Castiel groaned loudly and let his head fall back on the bed. “Holy moose, I was about to do it too. Like, the thought of breaking your heart? I would rather have kissed you, had sex with you, married you, and had like fifteen kids and three dogs with you. And I never would have said a word about how I only see you as a friend!”

Castiel exhaled in relief and then lifted his head to look at Charlie again.

“Seriously?” she asked, a little snark in her tone. “You would have married me rather than be happy?”

He shrugged. “I think we would have been happy. Just really grossed out by the sex.”

Charlie laughed. “Are you gay too?”

“Mostly. But, I mean, have you seen Bela Talbot?”

“My Muses,” Charlie moaned softly. “I have. And I want.”

Castiel offered up his hand in a low five and she slapped it gently. Then she sighed and leaned against the bed, putting her hands to her head.

“Wow. I said it. Out loud. For the first time.”

“Really? Why was it so hard? You don’t have a problem with queer people.”

“No, I don’t. But it was always _them_. This is me. And…you don’t understand what’s it’s like up north. Up north, women are supposed to be _women_ , you know what I mean? We run the house, we manage the family, we give our men an allowance to go hang out at the bar while we go to the bar next door and fondle someone else’s balls just so he knows his place, right? Like, a man’s only real use is on his back with a hard on.”

“Muses. That’s…progressive.”

“Oh, come on. Like you don’t know how batshit everyone still is up there. Do you know how much shit I got when I told my family I’d been selected for art school? _Art school_. A woman. Doing a man’s hobby for a living. The only reason I was able to come was because I didn’t have to pay for it.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly. If my mother knew that I…she might die from the shock.”

Castiel scratched his head. “You weren’t…planning on me being your fake boyfriend forever, were you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Being married to you with…two kids, not fifteen, and cats, not dogs, could have been nice. My mom would like you. You’re very _masculine_.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Charlie shrugged. “Not a bad thing, but delicate things like you would get eaten alive by my sisters and cousins.”

“Delicate?” Castiel tsked in dismay.

“But I can’t do it. I don’t want to kiss a boy. I want to call Ozma back and let her teach me about the beautiful art that is girl on girl lovin’.”

“Yeah, okay, if that ever happens, please make sure I’m not around to witness it.”

“Why not? Women like boy on boy porn. Doesn’t it go the other way around?”

“I guess. I’ve never watched it. Although, it is fairly ubiquitous down south.”

“Really?” Charlie asked, perking up excitedly.

“Yeah, we’re not so much with the boy on boy stuff. It’s more tolerated than outright accepted.”

“ _Really_? Like, all the boys I know hooked up with other boys until they were old enough to attract the attention of a woman.”

“That is weird. You cloud puffers have been way too isolated up there.”

“You know what? I’m not offended. I think we have been too isolated.”

“Welcome to the world.”

“Thanks. You got any of that girl on girl stuff on your tablet?”

“And with that a resounding, ‘Goodnight, Charlie.’”

Castiel stood up and gathered his sketchpad and pencil from the bed.

“That’s not a no,” Charlie pointed out.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Castiel replied. “Library basement, nine o’clock.”

“Ugh, make it ten.”

“How about breakfast at 9:30.”

“Alright, I can do that. And hey, Cas?”

“Yeah?” he asked, pausing in the doorway.

“If I liked boys…I would marry you in a heartbeat.”

~~~

“This one really takes the cake,” Charlie said with a huff of laughter. “So if travel through time and space weren’t enough fun, this guy claims that they used Art as prisons.”

“Prisons?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah, like they would paint someone into a cell and it would like, remove them from reality, but they would remain alive inside the painting. You could freeze time and release them later, or you could let time pass as normal.”

Castiel tried to tell Charlie about the lock he’d seen on the door in Dean’s painting, but his spelled lips wouldn’t let him. It had been happening all day. He’d been prevented from reading things he’d learned in the books aloud. He couldn’t even point to what he was talking about in the book with his hands. He’d have to hand her the book and say, “Look at that,” and hope that she could find it herself. He could tell that his behavior was irritating her, but there was nothing he could do about it. He also felt guilty for not telling her that at least some of it was true.

“Can you imagine that? Being trapped in a portrait forever? Like, would you even know it? Or would you just exist in a single moment, unaware that time had passed you by?”

“I think that would actually be a mercy,” Cas said. “You wouldn’t know that you were trapped. What if once you were put in the painting, it became your perspective? Like what if all you saw was days and months and years of people walking by you, stopping to stare at you, point at you, talk about you, and then leave—and you could never interact with them.”

Charlie made an exaggerated shudder. “Ugh. That sounds awful. Thank goodness it’s bulldookie. I mean, this whole thing is that you have to ‘write’ what happens on the scene, but these symbols that are used for manipulating reality—they aren’t a real language. Like, unless it’s some ancient writing system that got lost at the Dawn of Enlightenment.”

“Can I see that book?”

“Sure.”

Charlie handed him the book she had been reading, and he found that there were pages and pages of charts that showed the power or influence of specific symbols. He only had to flip a few pages before he saw a familiar symbol. It was what he had thought had been a nonsense pattern on Dean’s portrait. The symbol supposedly had the power to prevent time from having an effect on the subject it was painted onto. He also recognized the symbols that had bordered the canvass; they were the ones used to trap a person from reality into a painting. So, did that mean that if Dean hadn’t had the time freezing symbols that he would have aged and even died— _in_ the painting?

He raised his head and tried to say something to Charlie. He was trying to find a way around talking about the power of Art, but there was no way to talk about the symbols without talking about what they did. Frustrated, he slammed the book shut. Charlie jumped and Castiel muttered an apology.

“Damn it,” Charlie said softly. “I knew it. I ruined our friendship.”

“What?”

“Everything that happened last night. You’re being really awkward. You’re clearly uncomfortable around me. I’m sorry for everything. I wish I could—”

“Charlie, stop. It has nothing to do with what happened last night.”

“Then why are you having such a hard time talking to me?”

Castiel smiled grimly. Well, wasn’t that the root of the problem? He thought about how to explain it without actually talking about the reason. He couldn’t, and the longer he stayed silent, the more dejected Charlie looked. Finally, Castiel hit upon an idea.

“Hey…you said you could break into the Art addition, right?”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Yeah…It’s just a matter of sending an electronic command to the door lock.”

“Okay. Would you be willing to meet me there tonight, late at night, and open the doors for us?”

Charlie crossed her arms over her chest.

“I promise I’ll explain everything there.”

She looked skeptical, but she said, “Okay. What time?”

“Like one or two. Late enough that we won’t run into people and early enough that we can talk without rushing.”

“Okay. I’ll meet you there at two. I’ll have to deactivate the lock from my computer, so I’ll do that at 1:45, and then head down there and meet you. The door will be unlocked.”

“Okay. Tonight. I promise I’ll tell you everything.”

~~~

Charlie looked at him expectantly, so Castiel carefully turned the handle on the door. It opened as easily as it would if one of the Masters had used their cardkeys. Cas waited to see if an alarm would go off, but nothing happened. Sighing softly he slipped inside and Charlie followed.

“So, I’m really torn here,” she whispered as they tiptoed down the hallway. “Like, it’s super fun to see into the Forbidden Addition and what not, but if we get caught…are we going to be expelled?”

“Possibly murdered,” Cas replied.

Charlie punched his arm. “Not funny!” she hissed.

He shrugged. “I don’t know how far these people are willing to go to keep a secret. I mean, they spelled my mouth shut, so it’s kind of serious.”

“That is serious! If they’re willing to—wait. What did you just say?”

Castiel led her into the classroom where he was learning Art. Charlie didn’t seem impressed with the plain room. He turned his and Meg’s desk so they were facing each other and then he got Charlie to sit down. He inhaled deeply and then met Charlie’s eyes.

“Okay. So, I’m about to tell you something, and at the moment I can’t really prove it. So, you’ll just have to trust me. And also the hidden books in the library basement.”

Charlie leaned forward and rested her arms on the desk. “Cas. Tell me what’s going on.”

Castiel started with his first Art class. He explained what he had been taught, told her about the mice, and answered all of her questions—a lot of which were the very same ones that he had asked. When he was done, Charlie had her hands clasped together and was tapping one thumb on top of the other.

“This is a little hard to swallow.”

Castiel shrugged. “I know. I had proof. You don’t, so, I understand if you can’t believe it.”

“Well, let’s assume for now that I can. It seems like the Masters don’t even know how much power Art can actually have.”

“Unless they’re lying and hiding it.”

“That’s always a possibility. But, what do you think? Do you think it’s just influence over things that exist, or do you think those books are right? Do you think you can manipulate people and events and time…that you can create things out of thin air. That’s…that’s downright Muselike.”

Castiel tilted his head. “Well, maybe the Muses aren’t deities at all. Maybe they were just people who knew the secrets of Art, and used that to exert their power over the world.”

“That’s…too unsettling to contemplate.” Charlie exhaled sharply out of the corner of her mouth. Not long ago her bangs with have blown up with the motion, but she’d grown them out.  “So, what should we do?”

“What do you mean?” Cas asked.

“Should we…tell people? Steal your portrait so that they can’t do anything to you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, if they were doing things that are in the books, then I’d say it’s terrible and we should warn the world. But, what they do…is make sure peace treaties hold. Or that politicians stay honest and don’t accept bribes. I mean, is it right to interfere with free will at all? Based on human history, I was convinced that it’s okay, honestly.”

Charlie moved her hands to strum her nails on the desk. “Okay. So if you don’t have a moral dilemma about it, and you think keeping it a secret is best, why did you tell me? Why risk bringing me here and breaking the trust of the Masters?”

Cas chewed on his lip and fidgeted. Charlie raised her eyebrows in question.

“It’s about Dean.”

“Who? Oh. Muses. The _painting_?”

“Charlie, I’ve seen those symbols on Dean’s portrait. The ones that trap a person in a painting, freeze time. There’s a _lock_ painted into the door of the room he’s in.”

Charlie gave the slightest shake of her head.

“What if Dean didn’t desert his troops? What if he was trapped in that painting?”

Charlie sat back in her chair. “But…that can’t actually be…real…”

“Do you believe me about the mice?”

“Well. Kind of. But also, kind of not. It’s the only demonstration they’ve given you, right? That sort of thing could be staged.”

“Will you just look at the painting more closely?”

She shrugged. “I can do that at least.”

“Okay. Remember though, out of this part of the building, I can’t speak about it. I can’t even use my hands to write it down or point it out. So, I won’t be able to show you where on the painting. You’ll have to see for yourself.”

“Okay.” Charlie strummed her nails again. “So…what if the symbols are there? What if based on what we find, we determine that it’s a reasonable assumption that General Winchester is trapped in a four hundred year old painting. What will we do about it?”

Castiel swallowed. He hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “Nothing, I guess. What can we do? We don’t know what will happen if we try something. What if by messing with the lock or the time symbols, we wind up killing him?”

“Based on what we’ve learned, we might just be doing him a kindness then.”

“Yeah…but first things first. Let’s just go look at the painting, and then you can tell me if I’m seeing things.”

“Now?”

“No, not now. We can go after class tomorrow. I have to work on my project anyway, and you coming to visit won’t be unusual behavior.”

“You’re acting like this is something we have to be stealthy about. I mean, if we discover it’s true, wouldn’t you want to tell the Masters? I thought you trusted them.”

“I do. But…you can’t know about it Charlie. So, we can’t act like you do.”

“Right.”

“And I think before I start making claims about something this crazy, we should have some sort of proof.”

“Proof. Like, what? Mercy killing a painting?”

“I don’t know. Right now I’m just curious, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah, of course.”

“Okay, but don’t you think it’s also a good idea to keep this just between us for now?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” Cas nodded. “I’ll set up in the Hall of Portraits around 5:00 tomorrow, and then you can ‘pop in’ around 5:30. Then we’ll try to find out if General Dean Winchester is still kicking around in there.”

“That’s actually really fucking terrifying, Castiel.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But it might explain why his fricken hands are impossible to paint.”

~~~

Castiel felt uncomfortable having Dean’s eyes looking down at him as he set up his supplies. He’d done this nearly every day for twenty weeks, and for the first time Dean’s emotive expressions weren’t awe-inspiring, they were frightening. What if Master Lucifer hadn’t captured the man’s expressions, but the man himself? What if the expressions weren’t in the painting, but actually forming slowly on the man’s face? It might explain why he looked different from different angles—he might actually be changing.

Castiel stepped close to the painting, and allowed his eyes to cross just slightly. It made it easier to see between the lines and brushstrokes. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could see that Dean’s portrait was covered in symbols. From the gleam on his finger nails, to the wood paneling of the room he stood in, to the spring day just barely visible out of an angled window. He was smothered and surrounded by magical symbols.

Castiel set to work on his copy, which was finished aside from a few background details and the hands. He still had the better part of two quarters to finish it, but the Devil was in the details, as they said. He had a little trouble concentrating because he felt like Dean was silently judging him. Or pleading for help. Which was ridiculous. The whole thing was ridiculous. Magic wasn’t real…and yet…he couldn’t say out loud his reasons for thinking that it wasn’t real because it brushed too closely on his knowledge that it was.

Charlie showed up a few minutes early, but Cas didn’t blame her for her excited energy. She rambled inanely about whether or not she would tell everyone in their class that she was gay while she examined the portrait up close, from far away, and at every possible angle. Finally she turned to him.

“You know, it’s a great portrait, but I just don’t _see_ what you think is so special about it,” she said giving really obvious wide eyes and eyebrow lifts.

Cas rolled his eyes. Charlie would make a terrible spy. “Try crossing your eyes,” he said, a little surprised the spell let him get away with saying that.

Charlie turned back to the painting and stayed still for a very long time. Then she stepped back and looked up into Dean’s face. She stood staring at the painting’s subject for almost ten minutes. Then she turned around and met Cas’ eyes.

“We should go to the library after dinner.”

Then she walked away. Castiel was left completely in the dark about what Charlie’s conclusion had been. The fact that she wanted to meet in the library and not the classroom meant that she knew he couldn’t talk about it with her. Maybe she wanted to talk to him there so that she could call him an idiot without him being able to argue back about what he had “seen.”

Castiel tried to paint for another thirty minutes, but then he gave up and packed up his supplies. He stood in front of the portrait and looked up into Dean’s eyes.

“Are you in there? If you are, do you even know it? Do you just want to be left alone? Or do you want…”

Castiel trailed off and searched Dean’s face, looking for micromovements or the slightest change in the glint of his eyes. Castiel saw nothing but oil on canvas. He picked up his canvas and carried it to the storage space in a hidden closet at the end of the Hall. He couldn’t help the chill that ran down his spine as he trapped his own version of Dean in a dark cell.

All through dinner Charlie and Castiel kept eyeing each other furtively and had even more trouble than usual understanding what Henry was saying in his broken Loquella. Ozma kept casting them plaintive looks, and had he not been so focused on the possibility that a man had been prisoner in a two dimensional world for four hundred years, he might have encouraged Charlie to encourage Ozma.

They left the table early and their friends let out a few catcalls and lewd comments as they assumed that the two of them were running off to get frisky together. They tried not to look too wild-eyed as they asked for a pair of gloves from the circulation desk, and then they practically ran down the stairs. Charlie beelined for the old textbooks and pulled the one that had the charts of symbols in it. She flipped through several pages, and then pointed it out to Castiel.

“I saw this one: capture.” She turned some more pages. “And this one: transfer. This one: lock.” More pages turned. “This one for life, this one for permanence, this one for preserve.” She flipped the pages to the very back. “All of these symbols—these all are used to control time. I saw them all over the painting.” Charlie lowered the book. “I’m not saying that this level of—power—is real. But if it is, that painting has had the shit spelled out of it. Now, maybe it was done to preserve the oil, the canvas, the image from the natural breakdown that occurs over time. It might explain why a painting that old hasn’t darkened at all or have any cracks in it. It is possible it’s just about preserving the materials.”

“But it could be about him,” Castiel said.

Charlie nodded. They stood silent and unmoving.

“What should we do?” Castiel asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know if we _can_ do anything. We may know what the symbols do, but it doesn’t say in here _how_ they work. If there’s anything special you have to do. We could do more harm than good if we tried to—manipulate the painting.”

Castiel sighed. He’d been thinking the same thing. What he’d learned about Art was that word placement was important; especially when it came to a painting with multiple words. The order could completely change how the painting influenced its subjects. They couldn’t possibly know what order the symbols would need to go in. What if it was a language of some kind? If placing the word “bribery” on top of the word “truth” could result in bribes winning out over the truth as opposed to getting someone to be honest about them, then who knows if they might just completely cause the universe to implode if they got something wrong?

“We can always keep researching. That couldn’t hurt.”

Charlie nodded. “I agree. Knowledge is power.”

“I thought Art was power,” he replied dryly.

“Well, then the knowledge of Art should be all powerful.”

They laughed, and then realized how terrifying that idea was.

“Damn.”

~~~

“Charlie’s going home for break,” Cas said as he touched up a highlight around Dean’s eyes. He glanced up at the Real Dean, as he started thinking of the man in the portrait. “So, it’ll just be me and you for a week. I really hope I don’t bore you. I’m actually considering bringing down my tablet and just setting it up to play some movies while I work. I mean, it’s got to be boring being stuck in the same place for so long. And you’re totally missing out on the _Dark Rainbow_ trilogy. My sister is obsessed with the actor in it, but it is seriously some of the tritest drivel I’ve ever seen. But, it’s amusing to watch to make fun of it.”

Castiel looked at the man again. He looked uninterested in watching movies, but then, he looked uninterested is most of Castiel’s conversation. Although, his eyes looked less sad than the first time he’d seen the painting. Castiel was pretty sure that was in his head. He switched brushes and touched up the green in Dean’s eyes.

“I also considered bringing you some porn to watch,” he murmured quietly. “But what should bring? Straight, gay, kinky? I don’t even know if you like chicks or dudes. Although after four hundred years, I suspect you wouldn’t be too picky, huh?”

Castiel chuckled and looked up at Dean. The man’s expression seemed to be slightly disapproving, but that was just Cas projecting his feelings onto it.

“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t bring you porn. I don’t really like most of it. Though apparently there’s some very sensual boy on boy stuff that’s popular up north. I wonder what that might be like. But I wouldn’t bring it down here. I wouldn’t want to offend anyone else.”

Castiel wasn’t sure there was anyone else present in the Hall of Portraits. He’d examined several portraits over the past few weeks, but he didn’t find any markings or spellwork on them.

“But maybe we could have like…time travel though paint sex…? Like phone sex. Or video chat sex. I could be all like, ‘General, do you have any orders for me, sir?’ And, “Yes, sir, may I have another?’” Castiel sniggered. “Ah…good times.” He looked at the painting. Dean looked completely done with his nonsense.

“Yeah, I know, I know.”

He glanced down at his watch.

“Oh, shit. I’ve gotta go. Charlie’s bus will be here soon. I’ll be right back!”

Cas ran out of the Hall of Portraits and got yelled at three times to stop running as he made his way through the Academy. By the time he got out front, several students taking the 4:30 bus to the train station already had their luggage loaded and were climbing aboard. Charlie was waiting outside the door and talking to Ozma.

“Hey, guys.”

“Heya, Cas. I thought you were blowing me off.”

“Not at all. I just lost track of time.”

“Caught up with your general?” Ozma laughed.

People had been teasing Castiel about his obsession with the painting for a while now, but he’d gotten jumpy about it ever since he started to really believe the guy might be in there.

“Uh…um.”

“Anyway, Cas,” Charlie saved him, “don’t spend all your time with the general. It is supposed to be a break.”

“Right. I won’t.”

“And don’t spend all of your time in the library either.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, take a break. You’ve got really unsexy bags under your eyes.”

“Thanks,” he said with a glower.

Ozma forced a smile and stepped back. “Alright, well, I’ll let you two have your goodbye…”

“Wait,” Charlie said as she grabbed her by the arm. “You can be here for this.” She patted Cas casually on the arm. “Bye, buddy.”

“Have a good trip, pal,” he responded.

Charlie gave him a nod, and then turned to Ozma. “And now for you…”

Castiel was a little surprised, but not overly so when Charlie grabbed Ozma and planted a kiss on her lips. Ozma appeared startled at first, but then enthusiastically kissed Charlie back. Castiel felt a little bit like a creeper as he just stood there watching them with a grin on his face, but he was really happy for Charlie. The bus driver honked his horn several times.

“You going to the train station, you got to go now,” he said.

Charlie and Ozma pulled apart, smiling breathlessly.

“I can’t wait to see you when we get back,” Ozma said.

Charlie stepped backwards onto the bus and waved at them both. “I’m out, bitches.”

She smirked at her own pun and Castiel just shook his head. The bus door shut and then the vehicle rumbled away. He and Ozma could see Charlie stumbling around as she tried to get to a seat. Castiel let out a huff of amusement and then turned to find Ozma eyeing him with her arms crossed over her chest.

“What?”

“Were you two faking this whole time? Or did you turn her?”

“Maybe she swings both ways, Oz.”

Ozma narrowed an eye and Cas just laughed and patted her shoulder. “It’s not worth stressing over. Just be grateful someone as awesome as Charlie thinks you’re worth her while.”

Ozma’s face softened. “I am.”

“Good. Have a safe trip home.”

“Thanks, Cas. And, uh, enjoy your alone time with the general.”

“I always do,” Cas said with an enigmatic smile.

~~~

Castiel blatantly ignored Charlie’s request to relax and spent any time he wasn’t sleeping or eating either painting in the Hall of Portraits or reading in the basement. The benefit of the former was that he was essentially done with his final project weeks early. And it had come out rather nice even if he did say so himself. The latter helped him learn so much about Art, that he’d been tempted to try some of the bland stuff for himself. To put what he’d learned in his legitimate classes to practical use. He’d gone so far as to paint an exact rendition of a rubber ball on his desk. All he had to do was weave the word “fall” into the painting from the ball, over the desk, and down to the floor. In theory the ball would fall in the exact place he painted it on the floor without being bumped or touched. But Castiel chickened out. Especially after what he learned from an incredibly ancient text in the basement.

The structure of Loquella had remained largely unchanged since the Dawn of Enlightenment. Slang evolved and new words were created to represent new inventions, but the syntax, grammar, and most of the spelling remained the same for over a thousand years. The book he’d found pushed so far to the back of the shelves he never would have found it if he hadn’t tripped, knocked into the bookcase, and jarred it loose, was so old it threatened to crumble to dust in his hands every time he turned a page. The text was legible, but just barely, and Castiel had to puzzle out what a lot of it meant. The spellings were odd and some words he didn’t even recognize, but it was apparent that knowledge of the power of Art predated the Dawn of Enlightenment by several centuries. And what the book had to say was disturbing.

Originally, the power to manipulate the world was discovered when ancient people used their blood to paint on cave walls. Eventually they found that by mixing their blood with berries, they could have more “paint” while decreasing the risk of bleeding out before finishing their Art. Over time and experimentation it was found that many other bodily fluids could be used to spell paint, including saliva, tears, sweat, and seminal and vaginal secretions. The book hadn’t put it quite so scientifically or bluntly, but Castiel understood and was a little skeeved out. They also found that only a little bit of each fluid needed to be mixed with the paint for it to still work, which was why Artists of old started working with real paints and could sculpt Art by applying the fluid to their chisels. However, the potency was reduced as the ratio of paint to fluid increased. This was compensated for by making the painting match the scene as perfectly as possible. And that explained his current Art lessons’ emphasis on color mixing and composition.

The Masters hadn’t once said anything about mixing bodily fluids into the paints they used. He wondered if they didn’t know about it, or if they hid that piece of information so that even if a student was tempted to try it on their own, they couldn’t actually activate the power. Even if it meant making the Masters suspicious, Castiel intended to try to glean this information from them as soon as classes started up again.

~~~

Castiel and Meg sat in their desks waiting for the Masters to finish their private discussion in the hall. They’d already had a stilted conversation about what they did on their breaks and how nice the weather was now that spring was crawling out of winter’s grip. Now they were just staring at the chalkboard.

“Hey, Meg?”

“Yep?” she popped her “P.”

“Shouldn’t you have had your final last quarter? And made some real Art. Did you do that?”

“Nope,” she popped her “P.”

“Oh. Why not?”

“Because I didn’t start anything until your first quarter. My first quarter here was spent making negotiations with the Masters about what I was allowed to learn and how I was allowed to use it at political events or what have you. It was all contract negotiation.”

“That sounds awful.”

Meg turned her head to look at him. “It was Hell. And I come from Tartarus.”

The Masters entered the room shortly after and Master Milton began a lecture on font. _Font_. Castiel was pretty certain based on his studies in the basement that that kind of bullshit actually didn’t matter that much. He put up with it for almost an hour before he couldn’t take it anymore. He raised his hand and Master Milton stopped her lecture.

“Yes, Castiel.”

“I-I’m sorry to interrupt, but I…I was wondering…” He inhaled deeply for courage and just went for it. “Is there something you’re not telling us about how Art works? I mean, like, an ingredient maybe.”

Professor Milton’s eyes flicked to the back of the room where the other Masters stood. Then Castiel felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Campbell looking down at him.

“Why do ask?” Campbell asked calmly.

“Because…if just painting a word into a scene could have an influence on it, I feel like that’s something that children would discover on their own. I used to do it when I was a kid, but nothing ever happened. After all, it’s just oil on canvas. It’s just words and pictures. We’ve been combining words and pictures in books for centuries, and now movies—it seems like there has to be more to it.”

Master Shurley moved to sit-lean on the large professor’s desk at the front of the room. “Have you tried it, Castiel?”

Castiel flushed and looked down. “N-no. Not really. I started to. I painted a ball on my desk in my dorm, and I was going to try to get it to fall a certain way. But…I couldn’t actually go through with trying it. I’m not sure if I was more scared of it working or not working.”

Master Shurley nodded and Castiel could see his brightly colored boxers peeking through a part in his robes.

“You’re very clever, Castiel. And very daring. And also reasonable. These are all good characteristics for an Artist to have.” He considered him a moment longer, and then glanced at Meg. “Usually we don’t reveal the final lesson until, well, it’s the final lesson. But I think it would be good to teach it to you two now.”

“Chuck,” Master Adler started to protest, but the man held up a hand to forestall him.

“You’re right, Castiel. Oil on canvas is just that. Pictures and written words are the same thing. So, if we want to combine pictures with real words, how would we do that? How do we make words?”

Castiel didn’t want to give himself away by “guessing” correctly so quickly. Fortunately, Meg was clever on the uptake.

“We talk,” Meg said. “We make words by speaking.”

“Good, Meg. So. How can we mix the words we make by speaking with written words and pictures?”

Meg didn’t respond, so Master Shurley looked at Castiel.

“Mix?” Castiel asked, trying to play clueless a little bit longer.

“Exactly. How can we mix words with paint?”

To be frank, even knowing the answer Castiel didn’t think the way Master Shurley was leading him there would have gotten anyone to make that leap of logic on their own, so he remained silent.

“Your saliva,” he said.

“Saliva?” Meg asked.

“Yes. You can put some in the paint, or simply wet the brush in your mouth before you start work. The written words are the embodiment of spoken words, and when it combines with an image—the spell takes hold.”

“Just saliva?” Castiel asked.

Master Shurley laughed. “We don’t make words with anything else, do we?”

Castiel shook his head. “No…I guess not.”

~~~

“The end is here,” Charlie proclaimed as she flopped down onto Castiel’s bed. He was mostly ignoring her because he was packing up his supplies to go spend the evening with Dean. And…that kind of thinking just couldn’t be healthy, so he focused on Charlie.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. What?”

“Oils, dude. My last quarter in first year and I have to do oils.”

“You have to do oils for your final project anyway.”

“I know. And I chose the smallest portrait in that hall and I’ve been working on it for almost a year and it still sucks. How am I supposed to produce three oil pieces in eleven weeks?”

Castiel shrugged. “Make them abstract.”

Charlie looked up as that sunk in. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Alright, come on,” Castiel said patting her leg. “I got drawn early in the lottery, so I have to present my final project to the Masters in just a few weeks. I need to go work on it.”

“Okay, okay. Oh! Wait! I wanted to show you something.”

Charlie flipped open the cover on the tablet she always carried with her and booted it up.

“So, remember I looked into Dean’s family last quarter? And I found some info on him, but then I got caught up in the whole—you know what—and it totally slipped my mind. But, I came across it when I was on break, so since I had my good computer, I hacked into the Viridoctrin’s national library system.”

“You hacked into a foreign government’s system?!” Castiel whisper-hissed.

“It’s just a library. No biggie.”

“It’s a very big biggie, Charlie.”

“Whatever. Pay attention. I found this picture. Look.”

Castiel held the tablet carefully so as not to get his fingerprints on it. There was a picture of an old painting filling the screen. The painting was of a group of twenty or so middle-aged to elderly men all wearing black robes with long white collars.

“What am I looking at?”

“It’s a painting done of some magistrates from way back when. And this one…” Charlie tapped her nail on a man in the front row. “This is Samuel Milton Winchester, Dean’s brother.”

Castiel squinted at the small, grainy image. He couldn’t tell much about him other than the fact that he was balding and probably in his seventies.

“So, he lived a long life then. No fallout from his brother deserting.”

“Well, remember, he was the one who negotiated the surrender that saved all those lives. He was kind of viewed as a hero. However, the name still held a stigma. In fact, it still holds a stigma in Viridoctrin today even if people don’t know the source. So, in order to protect his heirs from judgment, he took his wife’s name when he married Eileen Leahy.  Or, maybe he took it later.  I think they were married before the Battle of the Seals. Anyway. Once I had _that_ information, following the Leahy family tree was easy. Samuel had three sons and two daughters, all of whom lived until adulthood. And they had kids. So, there are little Leahys all over the place doing a lot of different things. And in fact, one of them is a talented artist and was selected to attend the International Academy of Art.”

“Well, I’ve never heard of a Master Leahy.”

“He’s not a Master. Not yet anyway. It’s too soon to tell. He’s in school now.”

Charlie gave him an amused look and patiently waited for him to figure it out. When it clicked, Castiel made an exaggerated surprised face with his mouth open.

“ _Henry_? _Our_ Henry is a direct descendant of Dean Winchester?”

“Well, technically he’s a direct descendant of Samuel Winchester, but since they had the same father, all three of them are directly descended from the same line. And here’s the best part: in every generation of Leahys since Samuel’s own children, there’s been a Henry. It’s a family name. Guess what General Winchester’s middle name was. Or is.”

“Henry.”

“Yep.”

“This is nuts. This is totally unbelievable. Should we tell him?”

“Who, Henry? Tell him what? That his great great whatever uncle is trapped in a painting?”

“No, not—” The words died in his throat. Charlie smiled at his discomfort and he frowned at her. “It’s not funny. Anyway, the research on his family is just research on the subject of a painting. It’s just interesting.”

“Yeah, but…I don’t know if he’d be excited to learn he’s related to someone their country views as the worst traitor they ever had.”

“Muze…they’re so dramatic. It’s not like he defected to the other side and helped the enemy win. He just disappeared. And it wasn’t even his fault.”

“Maybe. How do we know that Dean didn’t ask to be locked away? Maybe he couldn’t face the battle, but couldn’t live with himself if he deserted for real.”

“Seems like it would be easier to just hang yourself.”

“Unless he thought it would be cool. Live forever, see the world.”

“See the world? He’s been in the Hall of Portraits for over two hundred years looking at that same stupid portrait of the Prime Minister of Vacivo.”

“Ugh, I know, right? I hate that painting. Poor, Dean. At least he gets to look at your pretty face every now and then.”

“Oh. Um.” Castiel blushed and handed the tablet back to Charlie. He resumed packing his supplies.

“Cas, you really have a crush on him, don’t you?”

Castiel didn’t say anything, but his silence was as good as a confession.

“You don’t even know him. He could have been a terrible person. He could have been spelled into the painting in order to protect people from him.”

Castiel shouldered his bag. “I know. I just…don’t believe that.”

Castiel looked up and met Charlie’s eyes. It looked like she wanted to say something, but wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. She remained silent. Castiel nodded his head toward the door.

“Come on, out. I gotta get downstairs. Why don’t you tell me about coming out to your family?”

Charlie made a guilty face as she slipped off the bed.

“Yeah, about that…”

~~~

Campbell placed a reassuring hand on Castiel’s shoulder, but it didn’t help. He was shaking and felt like he was going to throw up.

“Deep breaths. They can sense fear.”

“Anyone could sense that on me now,” Castiel spat out.

“It’ll only take a couple of hours. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Really?”

“Well, no. It’ll seem like it’s lasting for an eternity and you may actually feel your real asshole begin to tear.”

“Oh, Muses, I’m going to puke.”

“Hold it in. It’s time.”

Campbell stepped away from him as the nine other Masters present at the Academy paraded down the red carpet of the Hall of Portraits to where Castiel was standing in front of Master Lucifer’s original painting of _The Viridoctrin General_ and Castiel’s replica of it. Castiel had to stand to the side and try not to fidget, ask questions, or pass out as the ten Masters carefully examined the original and the copy. After about an hour, they took their places on the semi-circle of stools that had been prepared for them. Castiel stood in front of his painting.

“Your color mixing is excellent,” Master Shurley said with a smile.

“And your steady hand improves your efforts at realism,” Master Freeman added.

Castiel wasn’t sure if he was supposed to acknowledge the praise or not, so he just stood still.

“Your attention to detail is a little disappointing.”

“More than a little disappointing.”

“The fray on the cuff is a single brush of paint rather than individual strands.”

“Your light and shadow play is very subpar.”

“The firelight from the candles looks like a child drew it with crayons.”

“You were too heavy handed on the eyes.”

“The paint is too thick in your dark colors.”

“You copied the scene, but not the style. Yours is not regimented enough.”

“I quite like the interpretation of flow in the brushstrokes, but that does make it inferior to the original.”

“The proportions and perspective on the window are off.”

And so it went, for an hour and a half, the ten Masters tore down his painting stroke by stroke and canvas fiber by canvas fiber. By the end of it he was near tears and it was all he could do to hold them back. His sniffling was muffled somewhat by the carpets and tapestries, but the Masters were all close enough to hear it. Finally after they had a little powwow for ten minutes, Master Shurley approached him with a broad grin.

“All in all, excellent work, Castiel. One of the best we’ve seen in a few years now. We’d like to extend an invitation to you to attend second year at the Academy.”

Castiel swallowed the mucous that had dripped down to his throat from his sinuses. He sniffed.

“W-what?” he croaked.

“Ah, he accepts,” Campbell said and the small group laughed heartily. Some of them thumped him on the back as they passed by and Campbell gave him a wink before he was left alone. Castiel’s brain felt like it had just come out of the spin cycle.

“Okay. I am going to puke _and_  pass out,” he said to no one.

He clumsily sat down on the floor, and then flopped onto his back. He stared up at the painted ceiling of the Hall. Then he kicked out his arms and legs wildly.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeees!”

~~~

“Was it really that bad?” Charlie asked.

She and Cas were having a secret meeting in the Art addition classroom. Castiel had smuggled out the ancient text so that he could read it at his leisure and Charlie wanted to see it. So that he’d at least be able to talk about it with her, they’d agreed to meet at one in the morning in the classroom.

“Worse. You’ll see.”

“Muses. Now it’ll be really worse. I don’t go until the last week!”

“That’s only two more weeks, Charlie. Are you done?”

“Yeah. Mostly. No. Well, yes. Damn it.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve seen your painting, and it’s actually good. You’ll probably get less flack than I did.”

“Oh that’s a load of hooey and you know it. Your copy is spot on. I bet you could swap them out and no one would ever know the difference.”

“Oh, they would know. Trust me.”

“Maybe. I think—ew! Is this talking about semen?!”

“Yep. All bodily fluids. That’s where the power comes from. Well, in conjunction with the images. The different fluids provide different influences, but they all work the same way. And I also figured out that an artist can put himself in a painting.”

“What? Why would he?”

“It’s time travel. It’s teleportation. It’s visiting fantasy worlds. Wouldn’t you want to do that?”

“Not forever!”

Castiel took the book back and very carefully turned the pages until he found the one with the twisting curlicue design on it. He lightly tapped the design.

“The artist doesn’t have to get stuck. All they have to do is paint a door in the place. It doesn’t matter if it’s attached to anything or what size it is, it just has to be in there. Then this design is painted partway onto the door. That way no one else can use the door. Only the artist can by completing the design and opening the door. Or, I guess anyone who knows what the symbol looks like could complete it. Anyway. Then the door opens and the artist is back in the room with the painting, returning the _exact_ moment he left.”

Charlie was speechless, so she just shook her head.

“Do you know what this means?” Castiel asked excitedly. “We could go anywhere. Anywhen. We could—”

“This is too dangerous, Castiel. If it’s real, I mean. And, I guess it is, but there are too many things that could go wrong. What if the painting is damaged while you’re in it? Or you can’t get the design right? Or what if this book is full of freaking lies and once you go in, there is no way out?”

Castiel deflated. “I don’t know. It just…how can I not try?”

“Um, because you haven’t even done one of the Art Lite versions of these paintings; you don’t even know if you’re any good at it. If you can even do it at all.”

Castiel frowned and picked at the chipped end of the wooden desk.

“Look, Castiel, I’m not saying you can’t. I’m just asking if you should.”

He looked up and met her eyes. They were filled with nothing but concern. He nodded. She made a very good point.

~~~

Castiel could feel six pairs of eyes on his back as he worked. Even with half the number of Masters present that had been at his first year final, he felt even more pressure. But not because of the people watching. He felt it only from himself. This was he, about to find out if he could make Art.

Castiel examined the ball on the teacher’s desk one more time, and then looked back at his rendition. He and Meg had been given six hours to get the simple painting done well enough to imbue with influence. All of his brushes had been wetted in his mouth, and a little saliva mixed in each color, just for a little extra kick for first time students. His painting was markedly better than Meg’s, but the Masters didn’t seem to think it would impede her from completing the test. Castiel used the hand holding his brush to rub nervously at his eyebrow.

“Any day now, Castiel,” Master Adler said in an impatient voice.

Castiel bent forward and wrote in the seven hundred and fifty-seventh “fall” that filled in the canvas and created a solid line from the ball on the desk to the tiled floor. He expected there to be some sort of dramatic pause while he panicked that he’d done something wrong and the Masters would begin to murmur disappointedly and then it would finally start to twitch, and move an inch, and then finally roll off. In reality, as soon as the canvas was filled in, the ball rolled off the desk and onto the floor. Castiel blinked at it, wondering if a breeze or tremor had made the ball fall. The Masters began to clap behind him and he turned around.

“Well, done, Castiel,” Master Shurley said. “You are now an Artist.”

~~~

“So, how pissed is your mom that you’re not going home for break?” Charlie asked as she played with Ozma’s hair. She looked up at Cas. He shrugged.

“She understands. How pissed is your mom that you’re dating a girl?”

“Shut up, dude. It’s a process, okay? If I can get her to like a daytime talk show host first, she might not see it as a totally bad thing.”

“Poor, baby,” Ozma said, rubbing her hand along the jean clad thigh she was using as a pillow.

“Thank you, Ozma. A little sympathy is appreciated.”

“Mm-hmm,” Castiel said.

“I hate leaving you,” Ozma said.

“I hate staying behind,” Charlie replied.

They kissed and Castiel rolled his eyes.

“It’s one week you guys. One week.”

Ozma flicked him off and Charlie waved a hand indicating he could go. Castiel stood up from his perch on the window sill and crossed the room.

“I’m surprised you two managed to produce a painting that got you a second year invite with all the face sucking you do,” he grumbled.

He was ignored, so he left Charlie’s room and began the trek back to his dorm room, which were in opposite wings of the building. Castiel had to pass through the main lobby and found some of his incoming classmates tearfully saying goodbye to their mentors. They hadn’t been asked to come back for a second year. Henry was one of them and the previous night he had cried on Castiel’s shoulder for a good three or four hours. He gave the boy a wave, and he returned it with little enthusiasm.

Castiel trudged up the marble staircase and down the hall to his room. His final project had had to be cleared out of storage so that the incoming summer quarter students would have a place to keep their canvases, so it was currently taking up most of the space on the wall next to his bed. He shut his door and lay down on the bed. He put a hand behind his head and gazed at the portrait. He’d continued to work on it since his evaluation, and he liked the additions he’d made.

About an hour later, and about ten minutes after Ozma’s bus had departed if his calculations were correct, Charlie was knocking on his door.

“Just a minute.”

He stood up and turned the portrait around, and then crossed the room. He let Charlie in and she seemed to be in remarkably good spirits.

“What happened? Did Ozma miss her bus?”

“No. It’s lasagna night at the cafeteria.”

“Ooo. Let me put my shoes on.”

Castiel sat down on his bed and started tying the laces on his trainers. Charlie meandered through his room, as she was wont to do because standing still was not in her wheelhouse.

“Oh, is this your final project?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t have it shipped home?”

Castiel shrugged. “I thought I might still work on it.”

Castiel looked up and saw that Charlie was looking at him funny. She walked toward the painting with purpose. Castiel spun his legs around to the other side of the bed and intercepted her just as she got a hand on the canvas to turn it around. They didn’t say anything, they just looked at each other, holding their ground. Finally, Castiel conceded and stepped back. Charlie pulled the painting away from the wall and Castiel held it up. She stepped back and looked at the portrait of General Dean Winchester. Castiel had painted himself into the room, sitting on a chair behind the general. Next to the window a door had been added, partially decorated with a curlicue design. Charlie slowly turned her head to look at Cas. The silence stretched between them again.

Castiel heaved a heavy sigh. “I know, Charlie. Okay? I know. But I have to know if he’s in there.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Part IV: The Living Work of Art

“Shh! Oh my Muses, you’re going to get us caught.”

“It’s not my fault. You’re holding it at a funny angle.”

“Funny angle? It’s behind you, Cas. When you walk backward, things come from behind you.”

“Bite me.”

Charlie and Cas shuffled through the doors of the Hall of Portraits, and then Charlie let the door close slowly and quietly. They hustled over the thick carpet until they reached Dean’s portrait. They propped Cas’ replica—with himself, a door, and a lot of symbol work added to it—on an easel. Castiel pulled a brush out of his pocket and a tiny vial of his blood to use as paint.

“I still think this is a bad idea,” Charlie voiced her concerns again. “Plus, we’re rushing. It’s almost five, students are going to be arriving for orientation soon…you shouldn’t have waited until the last day of break.”

“It took me longer than I thought to add the symbols to my painting. I had to make sure I did them right. I don’t want to end up in a void of nothingness.”

“One more reason not to do this.”

“Charlie, I’m going.”

“Fine. But maybe wait until tomorrow night. We don’t have time now.”

“I should come back at the moment I leave. For you it should be instantaneous. You won’t even have time to worry.”

“Muses, I hope you’re right,” she muttered under her breath.

Castiel uncapped the vial and dipped the tip of the fine point brush into his blood. It had coagulated somewhat after sitting around for a couple of hours, but he was still able to get some of the goopy stuff onto his brush. He leaned close and found where he’d left off the last symbol. It would complete the thumbnail on his painted self’s left hand. He glanced back at Charlie.

“Here goes everything,” he said, and then made the final stroke.

~~~

Castiel blinked his eyes, feeling nauseated and disoriented. He’d been standing, leaning forward with a painting in front of him. Now he was sitting down. His inner ear was not happy with the sudden shift in perspective, and he was lucky he was already sitting or he might have wound up on the floor. His head cleared a moment later and he looked up. A man in a navy uniform stood about ten feet away with his back to him. He was tall. Taller than Castiel had estimated, but the broad shoulders and strong stance were quite familiar—even from this new angle.

“Dean?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

The man turned and Castiel felt his breath catch. Lucifer hadn’t done this man’s beauty justice. Then the general turned more, his grip tightening on the ceremonial sword. Castiel realized that he’d just popped up behind someone without warning; someone who had formal training in how to dispatch people quickly. He put up his hands in surrender quickly.

“Wait, wait! I’m not here to hurt you. I—”

“Cas?”

Castiel went very still. The general took a hesitant step forward. “You’re Cas, aren’t you?”

Dean’s voice was low and rough and sounded out of place in the prim uniform. And yet it perfectly matched who Cas thought the man really was. Castiel nodded.

“My name is Cas. Do…do you know me?”

Dean smiled, but it was a grim, hollow expression. “I feel like I do. You sure do talk a lot.”

Castiel flushed up to the tips of his ears. Had Dean been able to hear _everything_ he’d said?

“Um.” He cleared his throat. “I apologize for that.”

“Don’t be. You were certainly better company than that odd looking fellow across the way.”

Castiel cocked his head. “Do you mean Prime Minister Schneider?”

“I’m not familiar with that name.”

“Yeah, no, you wouldn’t be. He postdates you by about a hundred years.”

Dean’s lips parted in a helpless tremor and his face suddenly looked more like a lost little boy than a fierce commander of a Royal Army.

“I’ve been trapped in this room for a hundred years?”

Castiel felt a very unpleasant sensation in his chest. He was regretting his decision to come here. What good could possibly come from tormenting Dean like this?

“Um. Four hundred. Found hundred and eighteen to be exact.”

Dean’s face was blank. He didn’t seem to be processing the information well. He swayed slightly and Castiel rushed forward to steady him. Like a child, Dean let himself be led to the chair Castiel had occupied and sat down in it heavily. He cried out suddenly, an odd mixture of anguish and relief. Castiel jumped back and put his hands up.

“I’m sorry! Did I hurt you?”

“No…I…” Dean slowly and stiffly eased back into the chair. He let out a harsh breath. “I guess I haven’t sat down in four hundred years.”

Castiel couldn’t comprehend what Dean was suggesting. “Have you really been stuck there? Standing and staring at that wall? Unable to move to stretch your legs or sit down or lie down or eat or take a piss?”

“Shh…” Dean hushed him. “You really do talk a lot.”

“S-Sorry,” Castiel stuttered, feeling mortified.

“No, I should apologize. You’ve only ever been kind to me.”

“I’ve done nothing but disturb you.”

“Your coming here has at least released me from that unnatural hold.” Dean relaxed fully into the chair, his head dropping back and legs splaying wide. “Ah, yeah…that feels good.”

Cas barely managed to repress a laugh. He schooled his features and approached Dean again.

“So, you know you were being held captive?”

Dean raised his head. “Captive? Yes, in a way, I suppose. I thought I was being held immobile, but I couldn’t feel the bonds. It seemed like a long time had passed. And I had odd dreams. But I never got hungry or tired. I never had to—as you put it—take a piss. So, I figured I must be poisoned or injured—and that was disrupting my perception of time.”

Castiel tried to imagine it—feeling like only an hour or so had passed stretched out over four hundred years.

“Was I one of the dreams?” Castiel asked.

Dean looked over at him, and then glanced away. “One of the more pleasant ones.”

Castiel warmed at the confession, but he pushed his feelings aside and knelt next to Dean’s chair.

“Dean…those weren’t dreams. You were seeing people, the world, as you had a view of it from the painting.”

“What painting?”

“Did you have your portrait commissioned before the battle?”

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. “I didn’t do it. The queen commanded it. She wanted to commemorate our defeat of the Tartarese. That arrogant fuckface, pardon me, that arrogant assface was here every day for a month, sketching and painting and making these stupid clicking sounds with his tongue. He said he was finally done the day before we were supposed to move out to engage the enemy. My officers were supposed to come in after he left for a final review of the latest intelligence from our scouts and to get their marching orders. But, then I was bound. And I dreamed that artist devil brought my brother into the room and threatened to kill me if he didn’t do what he wanted. I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. But Sam is a good man. A good soldier. He told that ‘Master’ where he could shove it.”

“Master Lucifer did this to you…?”

Castiel realized it was a stupid epiphany to have. Of course Master Lucifer had done it. No one else had come along and added those symbols after the fact, like the way the changes could be seen on Castiel’s version. They had been woven into the original painting by the original artist. Master Lucifer had trapped the general in a painting and then attempted to blackmail the younger Winchester.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Dean growled. “Damian Lucifer. Narcissistic prick. He—” Dean started up and Castiel fell back onto the floor in surprise. “Sam! Where is he? The battle? What happened?” Dean leaned down and picked Castiel up off the floor by fisting his hands in his shirt. He shook Cas once. “Where is Sam?!”

Castiel put his hands on Dean’s fists and balanced awkwardly on his tiptoes. Dean suddenly let him go.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Cas. I shouldn’t have…”

He trailed off and raised his arm again. There was a fine tremor in the man’s hand and his face had a look of desperate wonder on it. Castiel remained stock still as Dean reached out slowly, and then gently placed his trembling hand against Castiel’s cheek. Dean closed his eyes and exhaled shakily.

“I feel it now. I feel the time.” He swallowed thickly. “I haven’t touched anyone in…so long…”

“Dean,” Cas whispered, unable to manage more than his name around his tears.

Dean opened his eyes. Castiel took back everything he’d thought about Lucifer painting his eyes an unrealistic shade of green. He’d been spot on.

Dean dropped his hand. “I apologize.”

Castiel reached out and took Dean’s hand in both of his. “It’s okay. Or I mean, it’s not okay. That he did this to you.”

Dean curled his fingers around Cas’ hand and held on tightly. “How is possible all this time has passed, but I remain unchanged?”

“It…it was a painting. A…magic painting.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow. “A magic painting?” His voice was dripping with skepticism.

Castiel shrugged. “It’s how I’m here now.”

“Did he trap you too?”

“No. I…found a way in. I suspected you were trapped, and I came to see if I could help you.”

Dean smiled and the room was suddenly brighter than the small flames from the three candles could produce. Castiel smiled back.

“You did. You saved me. You’ve released me. Even if it’s been centuries out there, it’s only been moments here. Maybe I can get to Sam before Lucifer does. I still have an army to lead. I need to go find my officers.”

Dean dropped his hand and rushed for the door.

“Dean, wait!”

Castiel hadn’t added the lock on the door in his version of the painting. That door could open. He ran after Dean, unable to stop himself from glancing at the window to make sure his added door was there. The split second he was distracted by the relief he felt at seeing his way back home, Dean managed to get a hand on the war room doorknob and yank the door open.

Castiel didn’t know what to expect. It could be a bustling fortress of Viridoctrin soldiers who would not take kindly to some stranger appearing out of thin air in their general’s private quarters. Or maybe a fortress full of Viridoctrin soldiers frozen in time. A fortress of present day Viridoctrin soldiers who _really_ would not take kindly to two people appearing out of thin air in a room that time forgot. It could be a blank empty void.

What they found was the freezing, burned out, barren husk of a stone hallway. One part had crumbled completely away to reveal a snow covered field edged with dark, dead-looking trees. The wind howled softly and mournfully, and they were struck with a cold so bitter it penetrated them to the bone. Castiel gasped at the shock and then winced as the frigid air sliced at his throat and lungs like a knife. He instinctively backed up toward the warmth of the room.

“Dean, come back. We’re not dressed for this weather.”

Dean turned back slowly, looking so lost and confused and helpless that Castiel couldn’t stop himself from moving forward and wrapping his arms around him.

“Come back. We’ll figure it out. Just come back inside where it’s warm.”

Dean shook his head. “No. I won’t spend another minute, another _second_ in that room. I know where we are, where we can go.”

Dean backed out of his embrace, grabbed his hand, and then pulled him forward. Castiel stumbled over the rubble in the hallway. The wind made his eyes tear up and the tips of his ears felt ready to fall off.

“Dean, please, don’t. We can’t leave the room. It’s our way back!”

Dean was on a mission and didn’t heed him. His grip was powerful and he pulled Castiel’s whole weight with little effort. Dean took them down a flight of stairs that was thankfully still surrounded on all sides by the building so they were given a reprieve from the wind. However, it was only temporary as they found that most of the walls of the structure had collapsed, allowing the cold and wind to follow them down what had formerly been snug hallways. After the stairs, Dean turned left and then right and then right and then left again. Castiel was soon completely lost. He’d never find the war room again without Dean’s help. If he couldn’t convince him to go back there, they’d be stuck here—wherever, whenever here was—forever.

At last Dean stopped dragging him around and knelt down to push a charred, broken table off a trap door in the floor. It was made of stone so the lid hadn’t burned away, but it was stuck due to either time or ice. Dean gripped the bitterly cold metal pull with both hands and heaved, straining so much a vein appeared on his forehead and Castiel feared he might pass out. Castiel shivered miserably and wondered what was happening back where he belonged. Did real time continue to flow until the artist snapped back to reality? Was Charlie in a panic because he hadn’t instantly reappeared?

Then the door budged, just slightly. Dean heaved again with all his might and the door opened with a grating sound of stone on stone. A rotted wooden ladder was revealed in the dark hole. Dean indicated he should go down. Castiel shook his head.

“That won’t hold my weight or yours.”

“It’s not far down if it breaks. Come on.”

Castiel groaned but moved to the entrance. He supposed he’d rather be slightly warmer with a twisted ankle than fifteen seconds away from freezing to death. The ladder squeaked and shuddered under his first step. Castiel closed his eyes and prayed to the Muses as he started down. After eleven steps, one of the rungs broke under his weight and he went down. He started to scream but the floor met his feet almost immediately. The bottom rung had broken. Dean didn’t even use the rungs; he just slid down the rails and then used a long leather cord to pull the trap door shut. They were plunged into pitch blackness, but Castiel did notice that it was at least twenty degrees warmer, though still freezing.

Castiel heard Dean moving in the darkness and then two powerful hands gripped his biceps. Castiel gasped in alarm.

“Relax,” Dean murmured. “It’s just me.”

“Not that you’re particularly safe,” Castiel replied, his heart slowly climbing back down to his chest. “You do realize it was spring in the other room, right?”

Dean didn’t respond and released him. Castiel immediately missed the contact and tracked Dean’s movements with his ears the best he could. There were some metal clangs as Dean knocked into something, and then sparks appeared in the dark. The sparks disappeared at the same time something thunked on the floor and Dean cursed. There was more muttered cursing, and then the sparks started again. Shortly after a small flame appeared, and then grew inside a glass lantern. The light was enough to illuminate most of the small space they occupied.

It was about twelve feet square with a ceiling just high enough to give Dean’s head clearance. The space was fairly cluttered with large wooden crates, odds and ends of equipment, a couple of cots, and a large wood pile next to a small fireplace. Dean knelt by the fireplace and used the flame from the lantern to light some straw kindling. He then placed that underneath the stack of logs already piled in the hearth. After a couple minutes of adding kindling and blowing on the flame, he managed to get the logs to catch fire. Castiel walked over to the fireplace and pulled a small crate close to use for a seat. The fire was small at the moment, but the heat it was throwing off felt pleasantly scorching in comparison to the wind they had walked through.

Dean remained squatting by the fire for a moment, and then he stood up and began to search through the room. He used a pry bar to force the lids off the crates and checked their contents. After the lid on one box was popped, a miasma of rot rolled unpleasantly through the room. Dean slammed the lid back down, but Castiel’s nose still wrinkled with the stench.

“Well, it looks like these boxes were able to preserve the foodstuff just enough to provide a home for a fuck load, pardon me, ass load of black mold.”

Castiel could feel his face pull into concerned disgust. The last thing he wanted to do was breathe in four hundred year old mold spores.

“Where are we?” Castiel asked.

“Emergency bunker,” Dean muttered and continued to search through the boxes. “This room was made so that sixteen people could survive sealed down here for six months.”

“With two cots?” Castiel asked, mostly to himself. “I guess you Viridoctrins like to cuddle.”

“Those are for the commanding officers.”

“Of course.”

Castiel watched Dean search through more of the boxes, finding nothing but clothes that were falling apart and weapons that were caked in dust and rusted to the point of uselessness.

“Dean…”

“What?” he asked, distracted.

“I meant, _where_ are we? You clearly recognize the building.”

Dean stopped moving and rested heavily on the crate he had just reclosed without pulling anything out of it.

“Fort Magnus. In Albertsville. It’s at the southeast corner of Viridoctrin, along the Tartarus border.”

“Albertsville? That’s not…”

Castiel stopped and Dean turned to look at him. Castiel looked at his hands.

“That’s what? Tell me, Cas.”

Castiel suddenly found his cuticles very interesting. He heard Dean’s soft-soled boots make tapping sounds in the layer of dust on the ground as he walked over to him.

“What do you know about Albertsville?”

Castiel looked at him. “It doesn’t exist anymore. I’ll admit geography isn’t my strong suit, even in my own country, but everyone knows where—well, what—Albertsville was. I think you’ll find that the Viridoctrin borders aren’t the same now as they were in your time. Albertsville would fall within Tartarus’ borders now, but the town itself is a mass grave. I never knew which battle it was from, but we were taught that a very large number of Viridoctrin soldiers were—shared a funeral pyre. The fire got out of control and raged for a hundred miles around the town before it finally died out. I guess Fort Magnus was in its way.”

Dean sat down on a crate of his own and rested his arms heavily on his legs. His head fell forward and Castiel didn’t know what he should do to comfort him. Or if he should even try. Castiel tried to minimize his fidgeting as the silence stretched on and on. Desperate to hear something other than the occasional whistle of wind through the trap door, he began speaking.

“I guess that explains the winter then. It’s summer where I am. In Occimundi. Which, you’ve never heard of because it didn’t exist four hundred years ago. But, you know Caelus, right? Caelus is the capitol city. The country covers the entire western continent. And I guess you know the western continent is only in the northern hemisphere, unlike the eastern which spans both. And Viridoctrin is pretty far south, so it’s winter for them when it’s summer for us. So, I guess that means that we’re in Viridoctrin, well, Tartarus, and during my time. It’s 1078. Almost 1079. Just another month. I guess this has to be…hard for you.”

Castiel swallowed, feeling like an idiot. _Hard for him?_ What was he thinking trying to talk to him about anything? He was just going to make everything worse. Dean raised his head and Castiel mustered all his courage to maintain eye contact rather than look away like a coward.

“So…everyone I know is dead.”

Castiel bit his lip and twisted his hands together. Dean ran a hand over his mouth and looked at the growing fire. His eyes were shining with unshed tears. The general stood and turned his back to Castiel.

“I guess I don’t need to worry about Sam being blackmailed or hurt by Lucifer. Even if he was, it was so long ago it doesn’t matter. Right?”

Anger and sadness warred for prominence in his voice, and Castiel stood up, but then didn’t know what to do.

“It does matter,” Castiel said helplessly. “He’s your brother, of course it matters what happened to him. He’s fine. Or was. I don’t think Lucifer hurt him.”

Dean partially turned toward him. “Why?”

“Uh. I don’t know why he wouldn’t—”

“No. Why do you think Lucifer didn’t hurt him?”

“Because he lived to be in at least his 70’s. He helped negotiate a peace after the Battle of the Seals—the battle you desert—”

Dean turned fully to face him, eyes flashing dangerously.

“Disappeared,” Castiel amended. “The battle that happened after you disappeared. The Tartarus forces overwhelmed the Viridoctrins.”

“We outnumbered them _ten to one_.”

Castiel’s mouth moved helplessly. He didn’t know the particulars of the war. Dean’s jaw clenched and he turned back to the fire.

“They thought I deserted.”

Castiel nodded. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely managing to produce the word.

“Who took over?” Dean asked, eyes jumping with the flames in front of him.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t remember. Some other general.”

“Probably Lafitte. Good man, but a terrible leader.”

“Lafitte sounds familiar. I think it was him. Tartarus…do you really want to know?”

Dean shot him an unpleasant look. Castiel nodded.

“Tartarus destroyed the Royal Army. Nearly two-thirds of the army lost their lives. Your brother was the highest ranking officer still alive by the end of it, and he negotiated a surrender that spared the lives of the remaining soldiers.”

“And I suppose he was crucified for that,” Dean growled, his voice dark and dangerous.

“No. From what we read in history books, he was viewed as a hero.”

Dean turned to face Castiel and put his hands on his waist. “Viridoctrins viewed surrender as a heroic act? Winning or dying are the only acceptable ways out of a battle.”

Castiel shrugged. “He was rewarded by the queen. He went on to become a magistrate. Which I think is a lawyer or something.”

“I don’t know what a lawyer is, so I can’t confirm that for you.”

“Um…a solicitor?”

“Oh. Scumbags.”

Castiel let out a small laugh. “I’m sure your brother was the good kind of scumbag. One of my brothers is a lawyer too. Not very good though. He represented my other brother and he went to jail for a year. But that’s off topic…” Castiel felt like a tool.

“Ion. You mentioned him. He got out early. And helped throw you into a freezing ocean.”

“Shit. You really did hear everything.”

Dean gave a slight nod of his head and shifted his weight to lean closer to the fire.

“The queen commissioned the artist who trapped me in the painting. I’m assuming that same queen is the one who rewarded my brother for surrendering.”

Castiel waited for Dean to say more, but his brow was furrowed in thought. Castiel wanted to make sure he was following Dean’s line of thinking.

“So you think your queen betrayed you? Betrayed her country? Made a deal with the Tartarese?”

“I could be hanged for just thinking it, but possibly.”

“You can’t be hanged anymore. She’s not around to have treasonous thoughts about.”

“Muses, this is fucked up. Pardon me.”

“Assed up?” Castiel asked with a small smile.

Dean’s lips twitched with amusement, but he wouldn’t allow himself to smile.

“She didn’t want a war,” the soldier said. “She wanted to cede the eastern border to Tartarus and open trade with them. For once the prefectures managed to band together on something. The only way the queen doesn’t have absolute rule is if the one hundred and twenty prefecture representatives make a unanimous vote. First time in Viridoctrin’s history that happened. But no one was willing to give Tartarus more power. Bunch of genocidal maniacs. The queen didn’t have a choice but to go to war. I can’t believe she would...but it’s the only thing that makes sense. She wasn’t overthrown?” Dean asked.

“To be honest…I don’t really know much about Viridoctrin history.”

“Of course not.”

Dean stared into the fire and Castiel could see how hard he was fighting against the confusing tumult of emotions raging around inside. Castiel took a couple of steps closer, but still wasn’t sure what he could do to comfort the man.

“But, Sammy,” Dean said softly. “You said he was okay? Lived a long life?”

Castiel nodded and took another step closer.

“Yes. I saw a picture of him when he was in his seventies. That was pretty old back then.”

Dean gave him an odd look. “I suppose. Did he still wear his hair long like some sort of city fop?”

“He was mostly bald.”

Dean let out a bark of laughter. “What I wouldn’t give to have seen that.”

Castiel refrained from mentioning that he could show him the picture someday—that wasn’t what Dean meant after all.

“Was…” Dean swallowed thickly. “Was he…do you think he was happy?”

“I…I don’t know. He wasn’t persecuted. He became successful in his field after retiring from the army. He married. Had children. That often makes people happy.”

“Children?”

Castiel nodded. “Yeah. Actually, it’s kind of funny. I met one of his descendants.”

Dean looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yes. His name is Henry. He’s your great great great great great…great…great great—or thereabouts—nephew.”

“Henry. That was our grandfather’s name.”

“And your middle name.”

Dean shrugged a shoulder.

“Sam knew you didn’t desert, and he wanted to honor you.”

Dean didn’t respond and the despondent sadness was bothering Castiel. By releasing Dean all he had done was cause him more pain. At least trapped in Lucifer’s painting, he hadn’t known that he’d been left behind and yet also outlived everyone he’d ever known.

“He’s very talented,” Castiel blurted out.

“Who?”

“Henry. He’s an artist. He’s smart and very kind. He’s a good looking boy. It must run in the family.”

Dean let out a small huff of amusement.

“He doesn’t look much like you though. Dark hair and eyes. But he’s got those freckles.”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t have freckles.”

Castiel smiled and stepped closer. “Yes, you do. I’ve been staring at your face for a year now. I painted those freckles, each individual one.”

Lost in his memories of “creating” Dean, he raised a hand up and cupped his cheek, his thumb brushing over a smattering of those freckles. His eyes roved over Dean’s face—overwhelmed by seeing his two-dimensional painting come to life.

Dean’s hand snapped up and grabbed his wrist. Castiel started and jerked back.

“I’m sorry!”

Dean didn’t let him pull away. Instead he yanked him sharply forward and smashed their lips together. Castiel was so surprised he was easily manhandled around until Dean could slam him against a cold stone wall. Cas gasped again and Dean’s tongue found its way into his mouth. Castiel whimpered softly as Dean’s lips and tongue and hands and body roughly used him. Dean pulled back slightly and let Castiel’s lower lip slide through his teeth.

“I’ve heard you talk about me, Cas. And I know you want me.”

Castiel was already flushed, but he went hotter still with embarrassment.

“I haven’t been with anyone in a _very_ long time. Tell me now if you don’t want this.”

“Do _you_ want this?” Castiel asked, combing his fingers through Dean’s hair. “You have so much to deal with and—”

“I do. I do have a lot to deal with. But not now. Right now,” Dean shifted his hips and Castiel’s lips parted.

“Oh, Muses,” he breathed.

“Right now I just want to _feel_ something.”

Castiel nodded. “I…I want you,” he whispered, feeling ashamed. Feeling like he was taking advantage of the man. Dean kissed him again and those thoughts fell away.

They stumbled to one of the cots, pulling each other’s clothes off. The fire was a roaring blaze by now, so they didn’t feel cold as they disrobed. Dean’s hands fell to Castiel’s jeans and fumbled around. He stopped kissing Cas long enough to look down at them.

“What in the Devil's Hell is this contraption?”

“Jeans,” Castiel said, sucking Dean’s earlobe into his mouth. “Here.” Castiel undid the fly and then hooked Dean’s thumbs in the waistband of the fabric. Dean figured out where to go from there and pushed Castiel’s pants and underwear down over his ass. Castiel turned them so he could sit down on the cot and kicked off his pants. He finished getting his shirt off over his head and the last of Dean’s uniform disappeared. He sat down on the cot next to Cas and struggled with his dress boots. He started cursing as he pulled on them. Castiel laughed and helped tug on them from the other end.

“I hate this uniform,” Dean grumbled. “Should have known nothing good would come from wearing it.”

His boots popped off and the uniform pants were pushed down and off. Castiel looked down at Dean’s lap. He grinned as he realized that his concept of proportions and depth were spot on. He took Dean in hand and the general let out a weak, grateful moan. But then he grabbed Castiel’s wrist and pulled his hand off. He pushed Cas back into the cot and laced their fingers together, palm to palm. Dean pinned Castiel’s hands to the bed and lay on top of him. Their cocks lined up, trapped between their torsos. Dean kissed Cas wildly, like he was starved, but their lower halves moved together slowly and sensuously.

Castiel’s legs spread just enough to accommodate Dean, and then he hooked his ankles on the man’s thighs just below his ass. They moved together in a perfect countermotion, pleasure building slowly between them even as their mouths moved more desperately and aggressively. Castiel flexed his fingers in Dean’s hold, but the man held him immobile. Dean devoured his mouth and Castiel found that he was perfectly content to surrender to Dean’s need.

Then Dean pulled away from the kiss just enough to pant in urgently needed air. Castiel sucked in a breath too and soft mewls of pleasure were pulled out of him with each roll of their hips. Dean finally released his hands and held his face instead. Castiel’s hands flew to Dean’s shoulders, aching for something to hold onto.

“Dean…Dean…I’m…I’m there, fuck, I’m coming. I coming…”

“Coming where?” Dean asked, sounding slightly confused.

Then Castiel spilled between them, moaning unreservedly and locking Dean against him with his legs. Dean surged forward and kissed him again, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth in mimicry of what Castiel wished they had been doing. And then Dean let out a short, harsh groan, followed by another. Then his movements slowed down and eventually stopped. He raised his head and looked at Castiel.

Dean’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes were bright. He leaned down and kissed Castiel softly, sweetly, and then pulled back again.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Cas smoothed his hands down Dean’s back and then up to his shoulders.

“The feeling is mutual.”

Dean nodded and then slid slightly to the side so that he wasn’t lying completely on top of Cas, although the cot was too narrow for him to move far. Their breathing settled and evened out. The sweat cooled on their bodies, but they were warmed by the fire. Castiel put a hand to the back of Dean’s head and soothingly carded his fingers through his short hair.

They didn’t speak, which Castiel thought was for the best. They’d probably just try to say things that justified what they’d just done. They didn’t really know each other, Dean was definitely not in a good place mentally, and Castiel had no idea what was going to happen when he went back home—if he still could. Need had nothing to do with it, Castiel knew. Dean may have needed to feel connected to another person again, but Castiel had just _wanted_. And there was no excuse or justification for it other than the fact that they had both wanted it.

“Why were you talking about leaving?” Dean asked suddenly.

“What?”

“Or, coming or going. I don’t understand what you meant. Or what it had to do with sex.”

Castiel chuckled and turned to his side so that he could face Dean.

“I meant that…I was, you know…there. Like, coming.”

“Coming?”

“Ejaculating?”

“Oh.” Dean’s eyes widened comically. “Then why did you say coming?”

“Because…that’s…slang I guess. What do you say in Viri—hey!” Castiel propped himself up on one elbow. “Are you speaking Loquella? Or does the magic in the painting make me speak Viridoctran?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “We’re speaking in Loquella.”

“Oh.” Castiel was a bit disappointed. “How do you know Loquella?”

“I’m general of the Viridoctrin Royal Army. I speak five languages.”

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. Although I’ll admit my Loquella is better than it’s ever been after four hundred years of ‘dreaming’ in it.”

“Two hundred and fifty.”

Dean raised his eyebrows in question.

“Your portrait wasn’t acquired by the International Academy of Art until the early 800’s.”

“Those assholes are still around, hmm?”

Castiel ran his tongue over his teeth to keep from grinning at Dean’s pout.

“Yeah, they are.”

“Still claiming to run the world?”

Castiel nodded. “Through the power of Art.”

“Such bullshit,” Dean grumbled.

“Is it? You’re alive centuries after you should have been dead, and I’ve traveled through space and time to be with you. That’s power.”

Dean sat up suddenly, his expression dark. “So, you’re one of them.”

“I-I’m not like Lucifer.”

Dean sat up and hung his legs over the side of the cot. He dry washed his face and then remained hunched over in defeat.

“Dean…” Castiel sat up cautiously and turned so that he could put his legs over the side as well. He snatched his feet back up when they hit the cold stone floor. “This kind of power…it’s actually not known to the Academy. All they do is imbue paintings with the will for peace and honesty in political transactions. The real power of Art has been lost for centuries. Probably a millennium. I think Lucifer discovered it on his own, like I did.”

Dean looked over at him. “And what are you going to do with that power, Cas?”

Cas searched Dean’s eyes, hoping he would see that he had no deviousness in his heart.

“Save you,” Castiel said. “Save you from this…perdition. If you’ll let me.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, and then looked away.

“You have. Or you’ve done enough. I’ve got nothing to live for anyway, so—”

“Don’t say that!” Castiel shouted and grabbed Dean’s face by the jaw. He turned his head so that he had to look him in the eye. “Don’t say there’s nothing for you. One evil man robbed you of the life you should have had, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve another chance at life.”

Dean gently removed Cas’ hand from his jaw, but held onto it. “What life, Cas? My family, my friends, my army and officers, my damn horse. They’re all dead. My time…doesn’t even exist anymore. Neither does the country I knew. It’s changed. Everything has changed, but I haven’t. I’m a relic of the past. And I should stay a part of the past. Besides, what other option is there?”

“Come with me,” Castiel said without hesitation. “I’m going back home. Come with me. To Occimundi. To my time. To a new life.”

Dean licked his lips as he let that sink in. He shook his head. “I can’t—”

“Why not? I can take you back with me.” Castiel didn’t know that for a fact, but he’d be damned if he didn’t try. “What are you going to do? Stay here? Live out a winter in an abandoned fortress with no food and no proper clothes and a limited woodpile? Are you just going to wander into the forest and let yourself freeze to death? Go back to the room and lock yourself back in forever?”

Dean flinched. “No. I can’t stay in that room.”

“Well, you can’t stay here either.”

“It’s madness,” Dean said. “It’s—”

“It’s your only option,” Castiel said firmly. “Because I won’t let you die. I won’t. I barely know anything about you, I know that, but I’ve been with you for a year. I love you.”

Castiel retreated a little bit, aware that he might have overplayed his hand. Dean was quiet for a long moment, and then he raised a hand and ran a gentle finger along Castiel’s jaw to get him to turn toward him.

“I’m not sure I believe it’s love you feel, but I do know that for however much longer I’m on this earth—whether it be another few days or a few decades—I don’t want to be here without you.”

Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.

“I don’t want to exist anymore if I can’t listen to you talk about your life and your family and friends. And tell me odd stories about your childhood or jokes that, frankly sweetheart, are not that funny.”

Castiel let out a small laugh.

“I want to be there for you when you’re hurting. When you doubt yourself. When you’re angry or sad or confused. Even if I’m just a painting hanging on a wall.”

Castiel’s joy started to turn to confusion.

“I’ll be here for you. Just…promise me you’ll burn it when you’re done with me.”

Castiel frowned. “You dumb shit. I’m not leaving you trapped in a painting. You’re coming back with me and then you’ll have to listen to me ramble all the time. Not just after classes and weekends. Then what are you going to do?”

Dean smiled. “You _are_ easy to rile up.”

Castiel sat back with a scoff. “Bite me. Now look, there’s no reason to stay here any longer. There’s no food, it’s freaking freezing outside, and honestly the longer I’m away from home the more nervous I get. So. We need to get dressed, find our way back to that nice spring day four hundred years ago, and go to my home using the doorway I painted into the room.”

Dean drew in a shuddery breath. Castiel cupped his face in his hands.

“Dean, I know this is hard for you to process right now. And I know when the reality of it really hits you—it’s going to hurt. A lot. But we can deal with that together. Please…come home with me.”

Dean’s eyes were impossible to read in the flickering firelight. Eventually, he nodded acquiescence. Cas leaned forward and kissed his lips.

“Thank you, Dean. We’ll figure it out. All of it. I promise.”

Dean nodded again, but his eyes looked very far away. Castiel found his socks first and put those on before he attempted to stand up and find the rest of his clothes. He helped Dean dress since the man seemed a little preoccupied with more important matters than putting his boots on the correct foot. They used sand to smother the fire since Dean couldn’t bring himself to be irresponsible even if the fort was already lost.

For a horrifying fifteen seconds, Castiel was convinced that they would be trapped and then die in this forgotten about bunker, but then Dean managed to shoulder the trap door open. The cold snatched their breath away. Snow had started falling heavily creating a slippery thick blanket to walk on and nearly cutting off their field of vision completely. It seemed to Cas that they took a much longer way back to the room, but it afforded them more protection from the snowstorm since more walls were still standing.

They rounded a corner and Castiel saw the interior of the room down the broken corridor they had had first emerged into. It was bizarre to say the least. The wall and frame on the left side were almost completely gone, but the interior of the room looked like the structure was whole and complete. There was a warm red glow from the room, probably because the war room’s walls and furniture were mostly done in red. It was too cold to gape at it for too long, so they hurried through the wind and snow and Castiel gladly stepped back into the room.

The change in temperature was instantaneous. He turned back and could feel no draft of cold air coming in through the doorway even though he could still see and hear the snow swirling outside. He could still see Dean outside the door too. He looked pale and angry, his lips drawn tight. Castiel stepped closer and held out a hand.

“It’s okay, Dean. I promise I won’t you leave you in here. No matter how it has to end.”

Dean nodded, satisfied that Castiel understood he’d rather die than be trapped in the war room for another half-millennium. He reached out and took Castiel’s hand, and then stepped back into the room. Despite the warmth, Dean shuddered. Castiel squeezed his hand.

“Let’s go home,” Castiel said.

Dean nodded again.

Castiel walked over to the painted door, which looked alarmingly like a painted door as opposed to a real one. Hopefully activating the power in the curlicue design was all it would take to make it open. Dean released his hand and walked over to the front of the room—a part that Castiel had never actually seen before because it was not in view of the painting.

“Just a minute,” Dean said.

He picked up a necklace with a pendant from a bookcase that was stuffed with large scrolls and small books. He held it reverently as he walked back to Cas.

“It was a gift from my brother,” he said softly. “I never really cared for it, but he gave it to me when we were children, so I just kept it out of sentiment. It was supposed to offer protection to whoever wore it.” Dean let out a humorless laugh. “I guess I probably shouldn’t have taken it off for the painting.”

He put the cord over his head and dropped the pendant under the high stiff collar of his uniform. Castiel wasn’t sure how Dean was even standing at the moment. If he woke up one morning and found out his entire family, Balthazar, Charlie, Campbell, the Masters and Apprentices at the Academy were all dead—it wouldn’t matter if it had happened centuries ago. For him, it would still be immediate loss. Just like it was for Dean. Castiel walked over to him and hugged him. The general patted him awkwardly on the back.

“Uh, it’s okay, Cas. It’s just a necklace.”

Castiel frowned and hugged him tighter. The man gave in and relaxed against him, but only for a moment. He straightened and pushed Castiel gently back by the shoulders.

“You promised me I wouldn’t have to stay in here. Let’s get this door open.”

Castiel nodded. “Right. No problem.” He turned to the door and reached into his back pocket. He felt nothing. He dug deeper into his pocket again, and then the other one and then his front pockets. He felt a terrible sense of dread fill him.

“What is it?” Dean asked, sounding much calmer than Castiel felt.

“I brought a brush and a vial of b—paint with me. But they’re not here.”

“Maybe they fell out in the bunker. When we—got undressed.”

“Maybe the brush fell out, but the vial wouldn’t have. I need it. I need to be able to paint the rest of the symbol onto the door.”

“Can you use your finger? Or does it have to be precise?”

“I can probably get away with using my finger, but…I need paint.”

“I have ink on my desk,” Dean said, crossing to the small writing desk at the front of the room.

“No. It’s a special kind of paint.”

Dean whirled around, alarm on his features. “Are you stuck here?” he asked, his voice cracking.

“No. No, we’re fine. It’s just, um…do you have a knife?”

With narrowed eyes, Dean picked up a delicate blade with a mother of pearl handle from the war room strategy table. He handed it to Castiel. Cas winced as he pricked the tip of his finger, and then made a face as he squeezed the blood to the surface. He turned to the door and began the slow work of completing the design.

“So, how much have you been able to see through your limited view?” Castiel asked, just to break the slightly judgmental silence as Dean watched him work magic with his blood. “I mean, technology has changed a lot since your time. Like, we don’t use lanterns or candles anymore. We have electricity and light bulbs.”

“I’ve heard the word electricity before. I don’t quite understand what it is, but I understand that it ‘powers’ many things. It sounds like witchcraft.”

Castiel smiled. “No witchcraft. Just science.”

“Science is another word for witchcraft,” Dean grunted.

Castiel chuckled. “Aw, old timey logic. How quaint.”

“Careful,” Dean said with humor, but with just enough of an edge that Castiel wisely decided not to make jokes belittling the knowledge and beliefs of Dean’s time again.

“Well, I’m a little worried the modern world may be a bit of a shock to the senses. But I’ll be with you whenever you need me. You should ask me about anything you don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand the movies or TV shows you talk about with your friend so much. In some ways they sound like performed plays, at a theater, but the way you talk about them, I get the feeling they’re not.”

“They are like plays. Just…not with live people. I don’t mean dead people,” Castiel added hastily at Dean’s frown. “We record them—like a painting. But the paintings can move and tell a story.”

“That doesn’t make much sense to me.”

“It’s okay; it was a bad explanation. I’ll show you one when we get back.”

Dean was still frowning, but it seemed more like a default expression than true displeasure.

“You say everything is so advanced in the future, but you still use tablets. I hear you talk about them all the time. Even ‘in my time’ we’d moved beyond chiseling things onto stone tablets.”

Castiel couldn’t hold back his laugh. Dean scowled at him.

“Different kind of tablet. I’ll show you.”

Dean grumbled. “You’re acting like I’ll be amazed by your technology. It’s probably not that great.”

Castiel kept his focus on his work. If he let Dean know how cute he thought he was when he pouted, he might offend the great general.

“I did like the music,” Dean said quietly.

“Music?”

“Mm. I heard it sometimes. It’s very different from what we have now.”

“It is. I’m glad you liked it. Fulgor Blueskies is my favorite singer.”

“Oh, not your music.”

Castiel whipped his head around, jaw dropped in offended disbelief.

“It was a little too mawkish for me. But sometimes someone would come in and sit just out of my view. They would play music that—it was the kind of music you can _feel_. It was like…”

Dean made some pretty poor intimations of a baseline and drums. And then he began to sing in a voice so off key that Castiel could barely recognize the tune.

“That’s ‘Devil on My Back’ by Aporia’s Minions. It’s a rock band.”

“A rock band?”

“Yeah. They make rock music.”

Dean nodded and managed a small smile. “I like rock music.”

“Of course you do.”

Castiel returned to his painting, but his finger had dried up. He took the knife out again and tried to decide if he should use a different finger or the same one since he had the most control over his pointer finger.

“How much longer will this take?” Dean asked.

“Well, I have to finish the design across the door.”

He still had about a quarter of the width of the door to go, and he’d barely done more than two inches of progress. Dean took the knife from his hand and then ran it swiftly down the meat of his own palm. Castiel gasped and winced. Dean held his hand out, cupping a puddle of blood.

“Will this help you paint faster?”

Castiel swallowed his nausea and nodded. It might be a good idea to use Dean’s blood anyway if he was trying to get the door to let him pass through. Castiel made a face and reached for the small puddle of blood. He let out a soft keening whine as he dipped his fingers into the warmth.

“Gross, gross, gross,” he repeated as he painted the pattern swiftly across the door. When he was almost done, he dabbed his fingers into the shallow spill of blood left and nodded toward Dean’s hand.

“I’m done. Wrap that up.”

Dean pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it tightly around his wound, using his teeth to help tie it off. Castiel painted the last of the design and created a solid line from one end of the door to the other. The design glowed a dark purplish-red, and then the door shimmered like a mirage before becoming slightly translucent. Castiel couldn’t see what was on the other side, but he could tell that the door was open. He held out his hand to Dean.

“Hold on tight and don’t let go.”

Dean grabbed his hand and squeezed it so tightly Castiel almost regretted his order. He nodded to Dean, and they both faced door. They stepped through it together.

~~~

The disorientation and nausea wasn’t so bad this time, but the shrill shriek in his ear discombobulated him just as badly. It was much darker in the Hall of Portraits than it had been in the war room, so he couldn’t see very well at first. But he could still feel Dean’s hand in his.

“Castiel!” Charlie shrieked again. “What have you done?!”

Castiel looked at Charlie and realized she wasn’t even looking at him. She may not even realize he was here. She was staring at the portrait on the wall. It was a beautifully painted war room by a Master Artist, but it was an empty room. Castiel turned to look at his copy of the painting. It was empty too. Another shriek rang out.

Castiel started and looked at Charlie. She was staring wide-eyed at him and pointing a finger. Her mouth hung open uselessly. Castiel turned to look and was relieved to see that Dean was standing beside him, whole and unharmed. Confused as fuck, but well. Castiel stepped forward and embraced him.

“We made it. I told you we would. We’re here. We’re home.”

“Castiel!”

Castiel turned around and shushed Charlie.

“Do you want to bring everyone down here looking for a murderer?” he hissed.

She looked at the original painting, and then at Dean. She looked at Castiel’s painting, and then at Dean. She looked at Castiel helplessly.

“Charlie, we were right. He was trapped in there. And his world was gone. It was either bring him back with me, or leave him trapped in that painting forever.”

Charlie’s eyes moved to Dean again. She finally pulled her accusatory finger back.

“Um, hi. I hope you’re not taking my panic and distress the wrong way. It’s not you. I mean, it is you. But, not like _you_. Just your presence.”

“I understand,” Dean said. “I’m having very similar feelings.”

“OMM, Cas. The painting is talking to me.”

Dean frowned and Castiel pinched her arm.

“Ow! Sorry. This is just really freaky.”

“You think _this_ is freaky? I just spent the last two hours in a freaking painting!”

“ _Two hours_? It was literally two seconds here. Like, you painted the last symbol on the painting, and then you freaking disappeared! Your painting didn’t change, so I looked at the original to see if you were in there, but that painting was empty! Dean was gone. And that’s when I screamed. And then that’s when you appeared.”

“And screamed again,” Dean added unhelpfully.

Charlie narrowed an eye at him. “Hey, hey. Easy, pal. Let’s see if you don’t melt away when we throw water on you before you start getting snarky with us.”

“Why would you throw water on him?” Cas asked.

“To see if he’s just paint and washed away.”

“Okay, one, it’s an oil painting. Water wouldn’t do anything to it. And two, he is flesh and bone. Trust me.”

Castiel looked away from Charlie so she wouldn’t be able to get a good look at his blush and sappy smile. It didn’t work.

“Oh. My. Muses.” She was grinning as she looked between them. “What did you two do?”

They released each other’s hand so that they could rub the back of their necks as they looked away.

“ _Oh. My. Muses_!”

“Charlie,” Cas gave her a mild warning, but her grin didn’t waver a whit.

“This has got to be the greatest thing in the history of love stories ever. Separated by five thousand miles and four hundred years—and you two knuckleheads found each other.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,” Cas snapped. “We have a real problem here.”

“What problem? Dean is saved! Congratulations by the way.”

“Uh, thanks,” Dean replied.

“You’re welcome. I totally helped you know. I helped figure out some of the symbols.”

“Thank you,” Dean said sincerely.

Charlie shrugged. “Of course. We wouldn’t leave you in there.”

“ _We_?” Castiel asked snippily.

Charlie ignored him. “Can I touch you?”

“ _Charlie_!”

“What?”

“Sure,” Dean said, and put out a hand.

Charlie reached out a hand, and hesitated before taking Dean’s hand. Her face lit up with a bright smile and she gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Dean managed one of his rare real smiles.

“Not feeling the sudden urge to _feel_ her, are you?” Cas muttered.

Dean looked at him, a little confused, and then he laughed. “Are you jealous?”

“ _No_.”

“He totally is,” Charlie grinned. “I hope you like him because he has gotten a little possessive of you over the last year. And dude, why _are_ you jealous? Gay. Remember?”

“Yes. But all of this is immaterial to my original point.”

“Which was?”

“We have a problem.”

“Oh, you mean random guy appearing out of nowhere? Not at all. Awesome hacking skills, remember? I can get him a real fake ID and Citizen Number and he’ll totally be legit. No problem.”

“Oh. I hadn’t even thought that far ahead. But I’m glad we’re on the same page about not telling anybody about this.”

“Why not?” Dean asked.

“Because magic isn’t really…widely known about. It would freak people out. And they might…want to do experiments on you.”

“Experiments?”

“Like aliens,” Charlie said. “I think the aliens that are out there will never come here because they’ll have seen all our sci-fi movies and will just be like, ‘Well, fuck that.’”

Dean chewed on his lower lip as he examined her. He turned to Cas.

“I didn’t understand any of that.”

“She said people shouldn’t find out otherwise they might lock you up to study you. Like use paint thinner on you to see if you melt away,” he correctly used Charlie’s metaphor.

“Seriously?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, dude,” Charlie said. “I wouldn’t trust the government.”

“We’ll make up a story for you. I think you ought to make him a naturalized citizen, Charlie. Make him be from Viridoctrin, so it’ll make sense if he’s not terribly familiar with all of Occimundi and its customs.”

“Yeah, but what about his not being familiar with light switches?”

“We can teach him. He’s a brilliant military general. I’m sure he’s capable of figuring out a few tech things.”

“I think you’re underestimating how overwhelming this is going to be for him.”

“I think you’re forgetting I’m standing right here,” Dean said grouchily.

“Dean, no—” Castiel started.

“We don’t mean to exclude you or discount your strength, but this isn’t going to be easy,” Charlie clarified.

“It’ll be easier adjusting to a strange world than going back to that prison.”

“No one is sending you back there!” Cas said vehemently.

“No, of course not,” Charlie said. “That’s not a solution. But, I think you will have problems adjusting. At first. But we’ll be here for you. Won’t we, Cas?”

Castiel looked down and nodded. “Of course, Dean. As long as you need us.”

“I’ll probably need you forever,” Dean said with an imitation of laughter.

“But I don’t want you to _need_ me,” Cas said. “If we do this right, you should be able to live here on your own. Comfortably. And if you still want me then—”

“Oh, Muses, Cas, not right now! Have your sappy moment later. We’ve got to find some place to stash him for the day. People will be getting up in another hour or two.”

“And we still have a bigger problem than that.”

“What?”

Castiel pointed at the painting behind her. They all looked and found the original still showing an empty room.

“Well, that could be a problem.”

“Can you paint me back in?” Dean asked.

“Not in one or two hours.”

“We should steal it,” Charlie said.

“What?” Cas asked with a laugh. “You’re nuts. That’s not a solution. That will cause just as much of a ruckus.”

“More so than a painting with a person missing from it? And no evidence that paint was cleaned off it? I mean, if the Masters see it, they might start to suspect that maybe Art has more power than they thought. And seeing as how you’re the one who’s been working with it so closely, they’ll come talk to you first.”

“They’ll come talk to me first if it goes missing too.”

“Yeah, but you can play dumb about a missing portrait easier than you can a missing subject in a portrait. We just can’t hide it in your room.”

“We can’t hide it in yours either. All my friends will be on the list.”

“Hmm.” Charlie rubbed her chin as she thought. Castiel tried to think of a solution, but his brain wasn’t working quite right. On the floor by his copy of the painting, he spotted his vial of blood and paintbrush. He walked over and picked them up and then returned to Dean’s side, showing him the items.

“These are what I was looking for. It looks like they didn’t make it through. Which is odd.”

“You had them in your back pocket, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’m assuming you painted yourself sitting in that chair behind me, right?”

Cas nodded.

“So, you didn’t paint anything behind you. You didn’t paint the vial or the brush.”

“No, I didn’t. But, I didn’t paint these…” Castiel look down. “Oh, wow.”

“What?”

“These aren’t the clothes I was wearing when I went into the painting. I’m wearing what my painted self was wearing.”

“So where are your clothes? Shouldn’t they be here?”

They looked around the carpeted floor near the portraits, but saw nothing.

“I guess it…changed them," Castiel said. "That’s a frightening thought. Could I change into a different person if I painted myself as someone else?”

“More importantly, could you change yourself back?" Dean asked.  "What if the person you morphed into doesn’t have your art skill?”

“Oh, Muses.”

“I got it!” Dean and Castiel started when Charlie snapped her fingers. “The vaults in the addition! They’re the most secure vaults on the grounds and no individual can access them so we don’t have to worry about someone accidentally stumbling across them.”

“Yeah, they’re the most secure, but how will we access them?”

“I told you. I can make the system think four keys have been turned; we just need a voice command. So, we’ll have to store them in your vault, but in theory no one should be looking in there anyway, right?”

“Unless the Masters ask to take out my portrait for some reason. Then what will I do? Say no?”

“Okay. There’s probably some empty ones. We’ll just program the lock on an empty one. No problem. I’m going to run back to my room and grab my tablet. You two carry these paintings down to the addition and I’ll meet you there after I unlock the doors. Oh, do you think the original is alarmed?”

Castiel shook his head. “I saw Campbell touch it and pull it slightly off the wall.”

“Good. At least we don’t have to worry about hacking a third system. Okay. Let’s hurry though. The cafeteria workers will be here soon.”

“Dean, can you get the one on the wall? I think you’re tall enough to be able to lift it straight up and get the wire off the hooks.”

“Okay.”

Castiel packed up what supplies he had brought to work on the copy, including folding up the easel it had sat upon, and shoved them all into his bag. Dean successfully got the painting off the wall and Charlie and Cas waited a moment to see if an alarm went off.

“Okay, so there isn’t an alarm or it’s silent,” Cas said. “Either way we’ve got to go.”

The trio made their way up to the exit to the Hall, Dean struggling a little more with his burden than Cas because of the large frame.

“Trap a guy for four hundred damn years and you think they’d have the common courtesy not to put you in such a frilly frame.”

Charlie laughed, but Castiel just felt mad.

“How about not spelling a guy into a fricken’ painting in the first place?” Cas growled.

“That works too,” Dean replied.

“Hey, wait.”

Charlie stopped them all just at the exit. Cas gave her an expectant look and a hurry up hand motion.

“What symbols did you use on your copy, Cas?”

“What? Why does it matter?”

“Just name a couple.”

“I-I used transfer. And blend. And—”

“Ah ha!” Charlie pointed a finger in his face. “You’re talking about the power of Art. Outside of the addition.”

Castiel was startled by the revelation. “I-I wasn’t lying to you before. I really couldn’t talk about it. Why can I now?”

“Well, it must have something to do with going into the painting.”

“Oh, Muses,” Cas felt a little faint. “It’s real teleportation. Like the whole disintegrate you and reintegrate you on the other side—so you’re actually a whole new you! Devil take me, I died!”

“Shhhh!” Charlie and Dean hissed at him.

“Sorry.”

“What in the Hell are you two babbling about?” Dean demanded. “What spell? Who got disintegrated?”

“Me. And you too.”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure,” Charlie hedged.

“Then why doesn’t the spell work anymore? I’m not the same person. Oh, Muses. I’m not the same person.”

“Do you feel the same?”

“Well…yeah. I guess.”

“Alright then. You’re still you. So can you please have your existential crisis at a more convenient time? Bust a move!”

Charlie opened the Hall door and held it open for the other two to slip out. They slunk along the gallery hallways, and then hugged the walls as they cut across a courtyard that put them in between Charlie’s room and the addition. Charlie scampered off for her room, and Dean and Cas awkwardly carried their empty portraits through darkened hallways while trying to be on the lookout for early risers. They made it to the addition without incident, but then had to begin the nerve-wracking wait for Charlie to show up.

“I hate inaction,” Dean muttered. “It’s why I was never good at making military decisions. I never should have been promoted to general.”

“So why do you think you were?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I was so pretty that people just kept promoting me until they realized one day I was in charge.”

Cas flushed.

“Or maybe I got there on my back. Or my knees.”

Castiel covered his face with his hand. “In my defense—I never thought you would actually hear that.”

Dean chuckled. “It’s alright. It was flattering. Insulting, but flattering.”

“Do you remember _everything_ I ever said?”

Dean just winked at him. Then an electronic buzz sounded in the air and something clicked in the door next to them. Dean looked at him questioningly, so Cas reached out with a hand and turned the handle. It was unlocked and the door opened easily. They waddled sideways through the door and felt better to not be out in the open. Of course now they were trapped. Castiel wasn’t sure there was another way out of the addition. In theory there had to be to meet fire codes, but the classrooms didn’t even have windows, so he doubted the Masters were worried about compliance on that end.

They carried the paintings to the vaults in the back room and about ten minutes later Charlie joined them. After what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes, Charlie finally managed to get into the system with the vaults. They decided that Dean should provide the voice command that controlled access to the room since it was his secret. Once the paintings were tucked away and locked up, Charlie looked at Cas.

“While we’re here, do you want to destroy the painting they made of you? So they can’t control you?”

Castiel shrugged. “What they did spell on me seems to be gone now. And they can’t access it without me, so I think it’s okay. We don’t want to risk arousing suspicions if they ask to bring it out for the first day of class tomorrow…today.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I think so.”

“Alright. Let’s go back to my room so that I can start on Dean’s new identity. We shouldn’t put it off. He needs to be in the system as soon as possible in case we do get caught in the halls. I mean, I don’t think everyone’s first thought is that he’s an escapee from a painting, but being undocumented might be worse.”

“Well, if we don’t want people thinking he’s an escapee from a painting, he needs new clothing first.”

“Do you think he can fit in your clothes?”

Castiel looked him over. “Good enough until we can buy him something of his own.”

“Okay. Your room first for clothes, then mine for the ID.”

“Our rooms are too far apart. It’s getting to be too late in the morning to do both and not get caught by someone.”

“Okay. Dean comes with me. You get some clothes and then come to us.”

Castiel swallowed and glanced at Dean. “Are you okay with that? Splitting up?”

“I assume I can’t stay by your side indefinitely.”

 _Debatable_ , Castiel thought to himself.

“But, if you trust Charlie, then so do I.”

Castiel could see Charlie’s expression convert into an “Aww” face and cut her off before she could voice it.

“Good. Follow Charlie and I’ll join you two in about fifteen minutes. Twenty tops.”

Castiel opened the door to the addition carefully and scanned the hallway. When he was certain it was empty and he couldn’t hear anyone nearby, he and the others slipped out and scuttled down the hallways. They parted ways in the main hall and Castiel sprinted for his room. It probably would have been wiser to walk normally in case he was spotted, but he was too anxious not to rush.

Once in his room he debated what clothes he should choose. Sweatpants would fit Dean most comfortably, but jeans or slacks would call less attention to him if he was seen leaving the building. Which he would have to do. He couldn’t keep Dean hidden under his bed until he graduated, or even for the quarter. They would have to get out of the building and out of Viridis City. He would have to get on a bus. And then go where? Getting him documentation so that he wouldn’t be deported (to where?) was all well and good, but they couldn’t just turn him loose into Caelus. Cas didn’t doubt that he was a capable man, but Dean would be helpless on his own in the modern world.

Castiel decided to throw a bunch of clothes into a bag and then let Dean decide what he wanted to wear. Then he left his room and made his way through the still empty and silent halls of the Academy. His mind being preoccupied with clothing, he wondered what had happened to the outfit he’d been wearing before entering the painting. He hadn’t seen any clothes lying about in the war room, nor had there been any in the Hall of Portraits. He was definitely wearing the clothes that he’d painted into the portrait—a loose, long-sleeved black cotton shirt and his best pair of jeans. The ragged T-shirt and paint stained jeans he usually wore when working with oils were gone. Had they ceased to exist all together? Dissolved like paint in turpentine?

Castiel wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t taken the time to put detail into the addition of himself in his copy. What if he’d just dabbed on hair or made approximation of hands? Would he have had fingerless blobs in the painting? And then come back through the same way? What if he painted himself into an abstract portrait? He felt a little sick now that he had the chance to really think about exactly how dangerous his decision to go into the painting had been. He didn’t know enough about how it worked or what rules it followed.

He pulled down his shirt collar enough to peek underneath the shirt. The small mole by his right nipple was still there. He hadn’t painted that on because the shirt had covered it. So what governed that the mole appeared when the vial of blood and paint brush didn’t? He supposed he hadn’t painted his organs either, but he still had a heart and lungs and all the other important bits. But what if he painted himself shot or stabbed? Would he show up in the painting and just be dead with no chance of ever coming back out? He shuddered at the thought of what the power of Art could do in the wrong hands. Hell, even in the “right” hands. Castiel knew he could do something devastating even if it was just by accident. He decided right then that he would never attempt to put himself or anyone else into a painting ever again. He still felt uneasy about even influencing emotions and actions through Art, but he didn’t want to be dismissed from the Academy just yet. So, he would play ball for now.

Cas knocked on Charlie’s door and Dean let him in. Charlie sat at her desk, typing away at the wireless keyboard. The screen changed windows often, but she seemed to be tracking everything with ease. Dean wasn’t paying her much attention, and Castiel assumed the concept of the computer was just a little bit too much for him to grasp at the moment, so he nearly ignored it rather than marvel at it. He was, however, intrigued by the light switches. He flicked the switch on and off several times in the amount of time it took Castiel to walk inside and put his bag on Charlie’s bed.

“Thank the Muses. Castiel, please give him some clothes so he’ll do something other than give me a light-induced seizure.”

“A what?” Dean asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel said with a smile. He took Dean’s hand off the light switch and led him to the bed. Then he dumped his clothes out onto the duvet.

“I wasn’t sure what you would be comfortable with, so I brought you some options. I think it’d be best if you wore your own boots until we can buy shoes that will fit you properly. The pants will cover them. I think.”

Dean picked up a pair of jeans that Castiel worn enough that they were stretched out a bit. He looked at Castiel and frowned.

“Those pants look very tight on you. They can’t be comfortable.”

“Jeans are the most comfortable pants on the planet. Well, except for maybe sweat pants.”

“Or pajama bottoms,” Charlie chimed in. “Or yoga pants.”

“Not important, Charlie. Dean, you can try on everything and wear what you like.”

Dean looked very skeptical as he looked at the small pile of clothes. He fingered a light blue striped button down shirt.

“These are all very thin. They seem…” He didn’t finish his sentence and Cas knew it was because he didn’t want to insult him or seem ungrateful.

“Cheap?” Castiel supplied. “I guess you’re used to textiles being made out of wool or being unprocessed. I promise these will hold up. Maybe you’d prefer this one.” Castiel held up a stretched out black T-shirt with the Extra Mundus logo on it. “This is a rock band. You said you liked rock music, right?”

Dean took the T-shirt from him and fingered the material.

“When did he hear rock music?” Charlie asked.

“Oh…I should probably let you know that he could pretty much hear and kind of see everything happening outside the painting. I mean, whatever was within in his field of view or hearing. I don’t suppose you told him secrets, did you?”

“I didn’t talk to him like he was alive like you.” Charlie stopped typing and turned to hook an arm over the back of her chair. “I’m sorry, Dean. I should have.”

The general shrugged and began unbuttoning his uniform. “Why would you? It would be insane to talk to a painting like it was alive.”

Castiel shot him a look and Dean smirked and gave him a little wink. Castiel politely turned his back to allow Dean to change clothing. Sure he’d already seen the guy naked, but he hadn’t been invited to look again. He leaned over Charlie’s shoulder and watched her work. She appeared to be in the Housing and Property Department’s records.

“What are you doing?”

“Well, I’ve already secured him a Citizen Number, repurposed from a baby that was born and died the same month and year as him.”

“Same year?”

“Oh, Dean told me his birthday and how old he is. So, I just picked the same date but from a year thirty-one years ago. That way he’s the right age and has the same birthday. He just has to remember a new year. And now that he has a Citizen Number, I can help him apply for a new ID card since he ‘lost’ his old one. But, I need an address, right? So, I’m finding him a home.”

“Are you just going to make something up?”

“Can’t do that. The address has to be real. Besides, he actually needs a place to live, right? So…I’m finding him a nice loft in the Tower Ring.”

“The Tower Ring?” Castiel asked, surprised and worried. “I can’t afford anything in there.”

“No duh. I’m buying one that the banks recently foreclosed on using money siphoned from a Vacivo whaling company.”

Castiel couldn’t decide if he was impressed or terrified.

“Um. Isn’t that dangerous? If anyone finds out they’ll accuse Dean and—”

“Please. Give me some credit here, Cas. That money transfer has been scrubbed twelve ways to Sunday. It’s an account, in Dean’s name, so he technically is the one purchasing the loft from the bank. After I get his ID card finished, I’ll go back and show that the money came to him years ago as an inheritance, and I’ll create ten years of tax documents to back this up.”

Cas narrowed his eyes. “Have you helped people create new identities before?”

Charlie just smiled and continued working. Cas rubbed a hand over his eyes. Who was he friends with?

“Is this okay?” Dean asked from behind him.

Cas turned and did his best not to burst out laughing. Dean had chosen the black band tee and blue and yellow track pants which were unsnapped from ankle to calf to accommodate his boots.

“Um. Yep. That works.”

Dean frowned at him, clearly aware that Castiel was shaking because he was attempting to hide his humor.

“It all looked strange. I don’t know why this would look any worse than anything else.”

“It doesn’t. It fine. And it looks like Charlie found you a place to live. A really nice place, actually. I’m kind of jealous. So long as he doesn’t get arrested for it,” he muttered over his shoulder.

“He won’t!” Charlie sighed in exasperation. “Have a little faith. I know what I’m doing. And…there!” Charlie used her mouse to click a few things and then the small printer on her desk began to start up. She turned to them and Dean and Cas moved closer to her chair.

“Okay. So, the ID Department will send you an official card in the mail in five to seven days, but they provided a temporary card that you can keep on you until then. I hope you don’t mind: I named you Dean Smith since it’s more common and will draw less attention.”

“You changed his name to draw less attention, but decided to move him into a high profile residence?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy him some rundown slum in the Residence Ring.”

“They have nice houses there. Less ostentatious ones.”

“I know.” She shrugged. “I just thought he’d appreciate something nicer. Plus, this puts him closer to the Academy, and therefore, to us.”

Castiel grumbled, but he wasn’t really trying to convince Charlie to move him somewhere else. Charlie took the printed paper from the tray and used a pair of scissors to cut out the silver rectangle from the page. She handed it to Castiel for inspection. It looked exactly like a temporary ID card, complete with a legitimate birthday, address, and Citizen Number. There was even a picture of Dean from the neck up. He looked grumpy in the picture and Castiel could imagine it was the expression he’d made when Charlie had asked him to look at her tablet without explaining why she needed him to. He handed the paper to Dean. His eyes went wide, and he brushed a thumb over the picture of his face.

“How did you paint this so fast?” Dean asked.

“It’s not a painting,” Cas said. “It’s a picture. Technology found a way to use light to capture images.”

“I don’t…understand.”

“To be fair, most people who use cameras don’t actually know how they work. But, I’ll explain it to you later. What’s important is that so long as you have this, no one will ever know that you’re…a living work of art.”

Dean looked up from the card, his expression troubled. Castiel knew how he felt. After coming out of the painting, he had to wonder if he was a real person or just a copy of one. He reached out and put a comforting hand on Dean’s arm. He gave him a smile, and Dean managed a small one in return.

Charlie stood up and took the ID from Dean’s hand, grinning at her handiwork.

“He’s better than a living work of art,” she said. “He’s a legal citizen of Occimundi.”

~~~

The bus rattled and bumped down the uneven brick road from the city center and out into the rings. Dean was pressed against the glass of the window with wide-eyed wonder as he rode in a vehicle for the first time.

After they had secured Dean’s temporary ID card, they had left Charlie to finish a few more details regarding his legal existence, and Cas had taken Dean back to his dorm room. He’d shown Dean the bathroom and how the sink, shower, and toilet worked, and then he’d run down to the cafeteria. He was easily the first person in line and piled up a plate high with eggs, bacon, sausage and fruit. Students were discouraged from taking food back to their rooms, but not forbidden.

One whiff of the salty bacon had made Dean’s stomach rumble loudly. He had eaten the whole plate himself, ravenously, like someone who hadn’t eaten in…well, four hundred years. Then Castiel had left him alone to rest while he had gone to Charlie to find out more about the history she’d constructed for Dean and to make a plan to get him out of the Academy.

As the morning wore on into afternoon and they heard the hallways becoming filled with the sounds of returning students, they had whispered conversations about why they hadn’t heard anything about a missing painting from the Hall of Portraits. They figured no one had actually been inside the hall and it wouldn’t be reported until the new students were taken through the galleries during their orientation tour. They’d agreed that it would have been worse if Castiel or Charlie or both were missing from the Academy when someone discovered the painting was missing, so they’d decided to take Dean to his new home the next day.

They had waited anxiously all day for the news to break. They’d even discussed reporting the missing painting themselves. After all, Castiel had been continuing to go to the Hall to touch up his painting even though he’d passed his examination. It wouldn’t be odd for him to have been in the Hall; however, they both doubted Castiel’s acting abilities and thought the less he was involved with the matter the better.

As the afternoon had turned into night, there was still no word on a missing painting. Unable to take the tension anymore, Castiel had packed his bag with supplies like he usually would if he were going to go to the Hall to study. He’d even gone into the Hall to verify that the painting was missing and the events of the last twenty-four hours hadn’t been a fever dream. There was a clear outline on the wall leftover from a frame hanging in the same place for two hundred and fifty years. Unable to think of anything else to do, he’d gone to the galleries’ curator’s office and reported the missing painting. There he’d been told that the painting had been removed for cleaning and restoration. Castiel had accepted the answer, walked calmly out of the office, and then sprinted for Charlie’s room.

Together they had brainstormed reasons for the lie. The best they could come up with was that the Academy didn’t want to cause a panic or tarnish its reputation by admitting to a theft. They must have thought they had ways of finding the culprit without alarming everyone at the school. It had only just occurred to them then that there must be security cameras everywhere. They’d spent the rest of the day in a constant state of nauseated anxiousness, just waiting to get arrested and then interrogated. Castiel had been in a panic about what would happen to Dean. He’d not taken Charlie’s worries about the government running experiments on Dean seriously, but after being faced with the possibility of Dean being taken into their custody, he had allowed his imagination and fear to rule his thoughts.

They had reluctantly gone to bed, fearful they would be snatched up in the middle of the night. Castiel hadn’t shared any of this with Dean, but the man could sense his unease. They’d shared his bed curled in toward each other like parenthesis. Castiel kept telling himself that if he could just get Dean out of the Academy then he would be safe. The cameras probably couldn’t pick up too much since it had been dark in the Hall, so as long as he and Charlie didn’t break, Dean could live peacefully with his fake ID since no one would suspect Dean Smith was part of an art caper.

No one had come for them in the night. Castiel’s alarm had gone off as usual, indicating that he had to get ready for a day of classes. After sneaking Dean some more breakfast, he’d had to leave him alone while he’d gone to class. Dean had told him that he would attempt to use the shower, but that he wouldn’t try to leave the room. Castiel had told him that he’d back for lunch, and hoped that the police wouldn’t make a liar of him.

Cas had been a sweaty, nervous wreck through the four hours of Art class, convinced that one of the Masters would suddenly accuse him of breaking into the addition or using Art without permission or harboring a portrait fugitive or stealing a priceless work of art. But class went on as usual. He and Meg were there, and they were joined by a young man from Vacivo who would be the political emissary for his country. His portrait was spelled to prevent him from remembering what he had learned outside of the addition, like Meg. Apparently they wouldn’t be allowed to remember until after they had completed the three years of study required and the Masters unanimously voted them to be trustworthy.

Castiel had stopped by the cafeteria and gotten his lunch to go and Charlie had helped him carry it so that it wouldn’t be obvious he’d gotten enough for two. They’d found Dean sitting on the bench by the window, watching the activity going on in the courtyard outside. Once they were settled and eating turkey sandwiches—which Dean had found to be an amusing food item—Charlie revealed that she’d spent most of the previous night hacking into the school’s systems to try to find the security footage. She’d thought that maybe she could have deleted it or at least seen how bad it looked and if they’d be able to talk their way out of it. What she had found was that aside from a few perimeter cameras outside the building, there were no security cameras. They’d realized they’d dodged a cannonball on that one, and then apologized to Dean for having to leave him alone again. He’d shrugged it off and asked if he could have Castiel’s bag of chips, which Cas gladly surrendered.

After two hours each of Impressionism and Pointillism—both considered techniques he would need advanced instruction in now that he was officially declared to be an Oils major—Castiel had been able to gather all of Dean’s documentation from Charlie, get the man himself, and catch the 5:36 bus out of the city center.

Dean had been handling the onslaught of technology rather admirably, so Castiel wasn’t about to judge the guy for being as excitable as a box full of puppies over a moving vehicle. Dean asked him question after question about how the machine worked, but Castiel only had a rudimentary understanding of engines and manufacturing. It really was amazing how people took technology for granted. He’d grown up with TV and cars and cell phones, so he accepted that there was a legitimate reason for how they worked even if he didn’t know what it was. For all he knew about electricity and microchips and wireless signals, it might as well have been magic.

Dean had opted to stay in the band tee and track pants despite Castiel trying to persuade him into something less conspicuous, but he’d made it out of the Academy without anyone giving him more than a cursory eyebrow lift. There were enough students and Apprentices and professors and employees at the Academy that not everyone knew each other. He hadn’t been wandering around alone, so he’d simply blended in despite his outfit. Of course, Castiel had seen some students wear much more eye-catching ensembles before. Mostly students from the Vestis region—they experimented daily with fashion and style—their hair color and makeup often changing as often and wildly as their clothes did.

However, Castiel decided that before going to Dean’s loft, they would stop by the bank to pick up his credits card and then go shopping for clothes that fit him properly. Dean had a hard time grasping the concept that he could access his money—credits—from a plastic card. He mostly objected to the idea that the credits weren’t real money and therefore had no real value. There was no gold or silver stock somewhere representing how much wealth he possessed. It was just numbers. Castiel couldn’t really contradict him on that point. Money was now nothing more than an electronic transaction. He supposed the worth of the “money” was the credit earned for work provided, and people were actually bartering their services using the numbers as a proxy. Dean didn’t like that explanation and Castiel wasn’t sure he did either. He did manage to convince Dean that even though it might not make sense to him, as long as he had a higher number in his bank account than the number on the price tag—he could get whatever he wanted using the credits card. And the number in Dean’s bank account was alarmingly high.

Charlie had set Dean up for life. He wouldn’t have to work a day for the rest of his life; he could live off the interest alone. He’d been concerned that it would draw attention to Dean, but Charlie assured him that Dean’s assets were actually on the low side for most people who occupied the Tower Ring. In fact, the loft she’d bought him was on the fourth floor of a skyscraper—the first floor of residential units. People who lived there were considered grossly rich compared to the rest of Occimundi, but they were “too poor” to be involved in anything nefarious. Castiel figured that if he trusted Charlie to provide Dean with a fake ID, he’d have to trust that she knew what she was doing with everything else.

If Castiel was going to make the last bus back into the city center, he was going to have to get Dean settled in by nine o’clock. He decided to take Dean to Bullseye for one stop shopping for the immediate things he would need: an air mattress, some groceries, some toiletries, a few clothing items. He planned on taking him somewhere else to shop for nicer clothing on the weekend, but Dean seemed thrilled with his options in the tiny men’s department. He picked out mostly sweatpants until Castiel insisted he buy at least two pairs of jeans. Then he picked out a plaid button down shirt in almost every color the store had to offer and two black T-shirts and two olive T-shirts.

Picking out shoes was the most difficult part (because Castiel had simply picked out a pack each of boxers, briefs, and boxer-briefs and told Dean to try them at his leisure), as Dean didn’t like the look or feel of trainers nor did he like loafers. He wound up choosing work boots made of tough leather with thick rubber soles. Once he was dressed in a green plaid shirt left open over a black T-shirt and jeans with tan boots, he looked…totally normal. Like he belonged right where and when he was. Now it was a matter of getting him to feel that way.

They picked out food that he could eat raw or heat up in the microwave and wouldn’t require utensils. They picked up sheets and a pillow to go along with the air mattress and left Bullseye after dropping a cool six hundred credits. They had several bags in each hand and Castiel hoped his phone hadn’t lied and Dean’s new home was within walking distance.

They made one more stop on the way and Castiel helped him pick out a cell phone and a network plan. He wanted to be able to get a hold of him whenever he needed him. He also wanted him to be able to text him while he was at school in case he got lonely or scared. He didn’t phrase it that way to Dean, but he was pretty sure the general picked up on it.

Dean’s building was beautiful and well maintained and as soon as the staff realized Dean was a new resident and not some riffraff off the street, they were extremely friendly and helpful. Even though it was one of the less desirable units, Dean’s loft was huge and had been recently renovated. The helpful (gossipy) concierge who had given Dean the keys and taken them upstairs informed them that the nearly one million credit renovation was what had caused the former tenant to not have enough money is his savings to cover his losses on a bad investment. He’d owed more on the loft than it was valued at, and so he’d had to let the bank take ownership of it. Charlie had made sure Dean wouldn’t face similar problems by simply buying the loft outright. She’d claimed it had been a bargain at one and a half million credits because it was actually worth three to four million.

Castiel would have laughed at the gob smacked expression on Dean’s face as he walked around the space, but Castiel was sure he looked the same. Everything was luxurious and new from the floors to the appliances to the light fixtures to the bathrooms. Even though it was technically a loft, it was almost like there was a completely separate second story since it was so large only a part of it could be seen from the bottom floor.

After they finished ogling the place, Castiel helped Dean get his bed set up and they laid down on it together.  Then Cas took his time showing him how the phone worked. He programmed in his number and set it up so that Dean would only have to push an icon on the home screen to get it to call him.

“Okay. You’re all set. You just push this to call me, and this one if you want to text. And I want you to contact me whenever you need me. For any reason, at any time. Okay? If I don’t respond right away, it might be because a teacher is looking at me or something. But I’ll excuse myself from class and call you back. And any time after five I’m completely free. No matter how late, okay? And I’ll take the bus here tomorrow after classes.”

Dean nodded. “I think I’ll be okay. I once had to spend the night in the Belua Forest with enemy soldiers and gorilla wolves hunting me.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Story for another time, I guess.”

Dean gave a little half smile and shook his head. "Story to be told while you feel the sun on your skin.”

Castiel raised both eyebrows. It went without saying, but he and Dean had led very different lives.

“Anyway,” Dean said, “I’ll probably have to call you for now. I can speak Loquella, but I’m not very good with reading or writing it. You people sure do use a lot of extraneous letters.”

“I wish I could even pretend to be offended on behalf of my language, but I can’t. I rely on spell check for about a quarter of all the words I type.”

“Who is spell checks?”

“Who? Oh, no. What. It’s a program. We type in—”

Dean held up hand. “Enough. I’ve heard enough about ‘programs’ for today. I wonder if anybody even thinks for themselves anymore.”

Castiel smiled. “A lot of people wonder that same thing.” He glanced at the time on his watch and cursed softly. “Dean, I have to go. I did ask one of the administrators at the school if I was allowed to live off campus. You know what she told me? ‘Sure. You can live anywhere you like. Just withdraw from the Academy.’ These people, I swear.”

Castiel rolled gracelessly off the air mattress and onto his hands and knees so that he could stand up. Dean stood up effortlessly from a sitting position on the springy surface. Castiel ignored the mild embarrassment he felt from his struggle to get up and reached out to take Dean’s hand. Then he pulled him close and hugged him.

“Dean…I don’t want to leave you.”

“I’ll be okay, I promise. Though I admit, I don’t want you to leave either.”

Castiel buried his face in Dean’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck probably too tightly, but the man didn’t complain. Castiel would have gladly stayed where he was all night, but Dean gently pushed him back.

“Go. I don’t want you to miss your…what is that carriage called again?”

“A bus.”

“Right. Your bus.”

Castiel looked up into Dean’s eyes and felt the sudden urge to do some rather naughty things to him. Seeing the glint in his eyes, Dean smiled and shook his head.

“Not tonight,” he whispered, and then leaned down to kiss Cas.

It would have been so easy to give into the desire simmering just underneath their skin, but they managed to refrain and pull apart. Castiel cupped Dean’s cheek.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Call me if you need me.”

“You’re repeating yourself,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded. He didn’t say anything more, but he made no move to leave. Dean eventually had to take him by the hand and lead him to the door.

“Don’t jeopardize your position for me. I promise I’ll call if I need anything.”

With a couple more reassurances and one last kiss, Castiel managed to pull himself away from Dean and run down to the train station two blocks from Dean’s building. The train dropped him off at a station close enough for him to catch the bus at the last stop within the rings. The whole ride back to school he regretted his decision to leave. He could have just as easily caught a bus in the morning and made it back before classes started.

When he got off the bus in front of the Academy, Campbell and Master Freeman were sitting on a bench just to the left of the main stairs, deep in discussion. Without meaning to seem sneaky, Castiel tried to sneak by them without catching their notice.

“Castiel?” Master Freeman asked, her voice surprised and slightly accusatory.

“Good evening, Master Freeman. Master Campbell.”

“You were out late,” Master Freeman said. “Especially for a school night.”

“He is a twenty-eight year old man,” Campbell said dryly.

“His age is inconsequential. You are a student, are you not?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And you take your schooling seriously?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Then you should comport yourself as such. I expect you to be fully awake and alert during class tomorrow.”

“Yes, Master,” Castiel said, barely managing to repress his laugh as Campbell rolled his eyes and made a face behind Master Freeman.

Castiel turned and hurried up the stairs. It wasn’t even ten yet. What time did she think students normally went to bed anyway? Castiel was so focused on his amusement that he forgot about Aporia’s step. He stubbed his toe and stumbled forward. He cursed loudly as his shoulder connected solidly with the door.

“A lesson well learned!” Master Freeman called out. “Aporia makes herself known to the prideful!”

Castiel waved a hand in her direction and Campbell just laughed. Castiel made it inside without further incident and wondered if Aporia was responsible for all the shit that could go wrong when using the power of Art.

~~~

Castiel had tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep out of worry for Dean. He’d been restless and distracted during his classes, causing Master Freeman to call him out on his late arrival back to the school in front of all the Masters. Only Master Adler had seemed displeased by the news, but it was still humiliating. When he was at last free of his afternoon classes, he was a little disappointed when Charlie announced that she was going to come with him to see Dean, mainly because he wanted to find out exactly how bouncy the air mattress was.

When they arrived they waited ten minutes at the front desk as the concierge tried to call Dean to let him know he had guests. The longer they waited the more Castiel began to panic. He imagined Dean having fallen down the stairs and being too injured to get up. Possibly with a broken neck. He imagined finding a note saying Dean couldn’t stand being in Occimundi and that he’d left. Or that he’d been kidnapped by secret government agents/political emissaries who knew he was from a painting. Or that he’d simply disappeared because the magic only lasted for three days.

Fortunately it was the same concierge who had let them into the loft the previous night, so she was willing to take them upstairs to see if something was wrong. Charlie had made up some story about Dean having a head injury, which was weak to be sure, but better than anything Castiel would have managed.

When they knocked on the door, they clearly heard footsteps in the apartment, and then the locks on the door rattled. Then there was cursing and more rattling.

“All the locks have to be turned to the left as far as they will go,” Castiel called out.

There was some clicking, and then the door opened. Dean was wearing one of his olive T-shirts and a pair of grey sweatpants. He looked very disgruntled. Charlie and Cas thanked the concierge and then hustled inside.

“Rough day?” Charlie asked innocently.

“That thing,” Dean growled, pointing at the intercom on the wall, “won’t stop making noise. And that thing,” he said, walking far enough into the loft to point a finger into the kitchen, “blew up my apple!”

Charlie and Cas bit their lips to keep their expressions neutral because Dean did look very distressed. They gave Dean a quick tutorial on the intercom before addressing the situation in the kitchen.

The microwave sat innocently on the counter, but when they opened the door there was carnage inside. Apple guts had been blasted to every corner and there was a slight burnt smell wafting from the shriveled husk that remained.

“What happened here?” Charlie asked, peering inside the machine.

“I was trying to cook an apple. Cas said the machine cooks and that I could use it without setting anything on fire. Clearly, that was a lie.”

“Why were you trying to cook an apple?” Charlie asked, confused.

“Because.” Dean crossed his arms. “I like cooked apples better than raw.”

“So, you put a whole apple in the microwave.”

Dean shrugged. Castiel glanced at the display on the front of the machine. There was still over twenty-one minutes left on the timer.

“How long did you put it in for?” Castiel asked.

Dean shrugged.

“Well, you didn’t starve, did you?”

Dean shook his head. “I ate Hop-Strudels. Which taste awful, I might add.”

“Well, yeah, when you eat them cold,” Charlie said. “You have to heat them up.”

“In the microwave?”

“No, the toaster.”

“We haven’t gone over the toaster yet,” Castiel interjected. “Nor does he own one. Besides, I like them cold.”

“Weirdo,” Charlie muttered. “Okay, where are some paper towels so we can clean this up?”

“Oh, I didn’t think to buy any,” Castiel admitted.

“Hmm. Well, we can use a towel and just wash it later.”

Castiel gave her a weak smile. “Oh, I didn’t think to buy any.”

“Seriously? So what did you do after you showered?” Charlie asked Dean.

Dean crossed his arms the other way and found the ceiling suddenly very interesting. “I couldn’t figure it out. It’s different than the one in Cas’ quarters.”

“Ugh, Castiel, come _on_.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, just go show him how to use the shower. I hope you showed him the toilet and he didn’t go outside looking for an outhouse or whatever.”

“I _did_ ,” Castiel said as Dean said, “It was the same.”

“Alright, fine. I’m going to run down to the Bullseye to pick up a few cleaning items. Cas, if a delivery comes while I’m out, let them in. It’s Entertainment Nexus. I ordered some things for Dean.”

“You did?”

“Well, technically he paid for them, but yes.”

“Oh-kay.”

“Nothing extravagant. Just necessities. Like a tablet and a TV and a media drive.”

“Very important things,” Cas said dryly.

“You know it,” she said either missing or ignoring his tone.

Castiel followed Dean up the stairs to the loft and Dean asked over his shoulder, “What are those things?”

“Um. The tablet is kind of like your phone, but also like that machine Charlie used to make your ID. It just helps you—interact with this world. It actually is indispensable. She’ll show you how to use it. The other stuff is just for entertainment. Like to watch movies or listen to music.”

“Listen to music? I could hear that rock music again?” Dean asked, a bit of his funk finally dissipating.

“Yeah. As soon as it comes, I’ll help you set it up and we’ll download some.”

“Down…load?” Dean asked, sounding weary as he asked the question.

They’d made it across the open floor and to the back wall where a large walk-in closet, a laundry room, and a full sized bathroom filled in the rest of the space.

“Yeah…we’ll talk terminology too,” Castiel reassured him as he flicked on the lights in the bathroom.

Dean sighed. “It’s like a new language. The woman downstairs came up last night to give me some papers about the building and its rules. Are there really rules on how you live in a building?” Cas waffled a hand. “And I could barely understand a word she was saying. I just kept nodding, and finally she went away.”

“Mm. People born and raised in Caelus have a bit of an accent. Plus they use a whole bunch of slang that isn’t common anywhere else. Sometimes I have trouble understanding them too. Then again, one of my classmates from here says I’m hard to understand because I speak so slowly. I guess that’s what people on the southern coast are known for.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes.”

“Where is that…that I would know?”

“Ugh, of course, history and geography. My two worst subjects. Let’s see here. The Celestians populated most of the continent. You’ve heard of them, right? Oh, see here? You have to pull the knob out first before you turn it on. And then slide this thingy back and forth to adjust the temperature.”

Dean watched Cas fiddle with the faucet and then he played with it. “Yes, I’ve heard of the Celestians, but their empire was gone by my time. And what’s the name for this?”

“For what?”

“This thing you called a thingy.”

“Oh. Hell if I know. So, the Celestians were gone…hmm…so that means it was the Navitans who lived where I am now.”

“As in the country of Navita?”

“Yes. You know it?”

Dean shrugged and ran his hand under the spray of water now falling steadily from the wide showerhead.

“We don’t much concern ourselves with the Western continent. It’s so far away. Hard to get armies and horses across an ocean that wide.”

“Mm. That’s why we use drones now.”

“Use what now?”

“A discussion for another day. As for me, I guess from your point of view I’m a Navitan. Does that color your opinion of me?”

“All I know about them is that they spend more time on the water than on land and have relations with fish.”

“What kind of slanderous bull—”

Castiel’s words died in mouth as he watched Dean take his shirt off. Then he pushed down the sweatpants and Castiel saw that he’d yet to try out his modern underwear. He was finally seeing Dean in good lighting, and despite the large cock swinging about and begging for attention, Castiel only had one thing on his mind.

“Muses, I would love to draw you.”

“What?” Dean asked with a laugh and stepped into the shower. The shower had two tiled walls, and two glass walls that didn’t come all the way together so as to leave a doorway of sorts. Dean ran his hands through his hair as the water cascaded onto him. Castiel had a wonderfully unobstructed view as the water sluiced over tanned muscle and flawless curves and edges. He was definitely going to have to draw him someday.

“So, are you going to supervise, or…?” Dean trailed off and gave Cas a playful side-eyed glance.

“I think I better,” Castiel replied, shedding his shirt and jeans. “Soap can be tricky. I bet you don’t even know the difference between shampoo and conditioner.”

“Probably not since I don’t know what either of those are.”

Castiel laughed, though it came out a bit like a breathy giggle as he pushed his underwear down his legs. He stepped through the opening and Dean turned to make room for him under the water. Suddenly Castiel felt nervous. Not by his nakedness, but he doubted whether he had the right to touch Dean. If Castiel had been sent to Dean’s time instead, a lowly art student like him never would have been allowed in the same room as a great commander.

The first shy brush of Dean’s fingertips against his deltoid made Castiel’s reservations dissipate like sea mist with the rising sun. He stepped closer to Dean and nuzzled his nose under his jaw. In just three days a decent scruff had grown over his cheeks and jaw. Dean’s hands smoothed over his shoulders and down his back. Castiel kissed Dean’s neck, just gentle presses of his lips over the strong beat of his pulse. Everything felt a little too tentative and delicate for the want he could feel itching underneath his skin. But he didn’t want to start clawing at Dean like some sort of animal, so he pulled away and picked up the bottle of pine scented shampoo Dean had picked out after sniffing almost every brand in the aisle at Bullseye.

Dean didn’t comment or react to Castiel’s retreat, but his eyes were sharp as he watched Castiel squeeze the shampoo into his palm. He tilted his head down a little bit so that Castiel could work the soap into his hair. Castiel could tell it was greasy—hair that had never been washed beyond having water thrown on it. Fortunately it was short enough that with some vigorous scrubbing he was able to get his hair and scalp clean. He was a little more gentle with the conditioner and massaged Dean’s scalp with the intent to soothe and relax. Dean’s eyes closed and he swayed slightly on his feet. A small disgruntled sound fell from his lips when Castiel pulled his hands away and maneuvered him more squarely under the water.

Castiel picked up the spicy smelling bar soap and worked up a lather in his hands. Then he started washing Dean’s skin, from his shoulders, down his back, over his chest—a thumb playing with a nipple—Dean’s breath hitched as Castiel’s hand moved over his stomach. The muscles of Dean’s abdomen jumped when Castiel’s soapy hands moved lower. Then Dean let out a frustrated sound as Castiel moved his hands around to Dean’s lower back. He opened his eyes and gave Cas a challenging look. Castiel smiled and squeezed Dean’s ass cheeks and pulled their bodies together. He tilted his head up and Dean’s lips brushed over his.

“Patience, General,” Castiel murmured.

Dean leaned forward enough to kiss him firmly and deeply, but then he pulled back and waited for Castiel to continue. Still holding the soap, Castiel worked up a bit more lather and then moved his hands around to Dean’s groin. He was already half erect and it didn’t take much more than a few strokes over the shaft to bring him to full hardness. But then Castiel left it alone, and slipped his hands between Dean’s legs. His fingers fondled his balls and just behind them and Castiel felt oddly powerful as Dean bit his lip and failed at holding back his breathy grunts. Then Cas slowly, very slowly, sank down to his knees, soaping Dean’s legs as he went. Dean watched him with a promise of vengeance in his eyes as Castiel’s mouth hovered close to his cock, but never close enough to do more than tease.

Castiel made his way back to his feet slowly, kissing Dean’s thighs, hips, and chest on his way there. When he was standing again, Dean grabbed his face and pulled him in for a thorough kiss. Castiel held on to Dean’s wrists and had to balance on the balls of his feet as Dean pulled him up to get him closer. When they needed air, Dean released his face and began kissing his cheek, his ear, and down his neck. Castiel tilted his head back and let Dean go to work. He clung to Dean’s shoulders and let the man have his turn. Dean’s large hand slid over his wet skin and settled at the small of his back, trapping Castiel against his body. Then Dean’s other hand wandered between their bodies and managed to wrap around both their cocks. Castiel gasped and dug his fingers into Dean’s powerful muscles. Their lips found each other again. As much as Castiel appreciated the rough feel of Dean’s calloused hand stroking his shaft, especially when he lifted a leg and hooked it onto Dean’s hip, he was consumed by his kiss. He moved his hands to settle low on the back of Dean’s head and held him close as their lips and tongues continuously parted and joined in a way that felt much more intimate than anything else they were doing.

They lost their balance a bit, but the wall was there to support them as they continued to undulate together, their pleasure building slowly but intensely. When Castiel felt himself balancing on that painfully sweet edge of orgasm, he rested his head on Dean’s shoulder and whimpered the man’s name softly. Dean jerked his hand more roughly, working him up just a bit more so that rather than spilling over the edge he was thrust over it.

Castiel had had his fair share of sexual encounters, but two simple frottage sessions with Dean were by the far the best he’d ever had. He could only shudder with anticipation at the thought of having proper sex with him. He was so far gone in his pleasure and fantasy that he was only peripherally aware that Dean had come too. They touched liberally as they settled down from the high. Castiel loved how Dean seemed to be every bit as possessive over him as he was of Dean. He also sensed that they had been in the shower for some time, and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to hear a knock at the door if it came, so he reluctantly extracted himself from Dean’s arms.

“We should probably get dressed in case Charlie’s order comes."

Dean nodded and reached for the shower control to turn off the water. He pushed the temperature slider instead and they were hit with an icy blast of water that seemed to have been pumped directly from the arctic. They both hissed at the unpleasant shock and Castiel slammed a hand down on the faucet, shutting off the water. Dean let out a soft, unpleasant keening sound.

“Muses. I have bathed in rivers in the dead of winter before and the water was never that cold.”

“Ugh, yeah, that was not pleasant.”

“How is the water heated so quickly?” Dean asked as he shook off the icy droplets from his hands.

“Well, technically it’s not. The water is heated somewhere else and then piped up to the faucets. Cold water comes in a separate pipe, and then with the two combined you can find the temperature you like best. But if you turn one or the other off, then you’re left with water that’s too hot or too cold.”

“Honestly it seems a little extravagant. Along with your washing regimen. You washed every body part whether it needed it or not.”

Castiel gave him a look as he stepped out of the shower. “Every part needed it.”

Dean gave him a skeptical look in return.

“And…there’s one more thing that you really need to do.” Castiel found the toothbrush and toothpaste he’d bought for Dean still in the packaging. “Allow me to introduce you to the wonders of dental care.”

Dean frowned at him through his tutorial. And he made disgruntled and gagging sounds as he attempted to brush for the first time. He whined and fought against Castiel’s attempts to get him to floss and then pitched a fit when he spit blood from his mouth as a result.

“That’s only because your gums are unhealthy,” Castiel said. “The more you do it the healthier they’ll get and the bleeding will stop.”

Dean made noises that weren’t quite words and then rinsed his mouth with water. His eyes watered as he did his best to swish around mouth wash without swallowing it. In a show of solidarity, Castiel used some of the mouth wash as well. Finally, Castiel let Dean spit out the stuff and wiped off his mouth and chin with a tissue. Dean sucked air through his teeth and his eyes went wide at the sensation. Castiel smiled at him and took his face gently in his hands. He brought their lips together and _thoroughly_ enjoyed kissing him this time. He pulled back and patted Dean’s cheek.

“Better, huh? Kissing a clean mouth.”

Dean shrugged and muttered a grudgingly affirmative response.

From outside the bathroom they heard footsteps and a cheerful voice rambling about something. Castiel walked over to the door and peeked out. Charlie smiled when she saw him and handed him a plastic bag full of towels.

“I hope Dean doesn’t mind that I borrowed his credits card, but I figured he’d want nicer towels than I can afford. Also, I ran into the Nexus Entertainment people when I was coming back, so they’re downstairs starting to hook everything up. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to go with cable or satellite at first, but I decided on cable since he’s on such a low floor. So, the cable guys will be here tomorrow. I scheduled it for after we would be off from classes, but he’ll be connected to the Lattice via the building’s fibers. And are you naked?”

Castiel gave her a guilty smile. “A bit.”

“Oh, my Muses, Castiel. I told you to tell him how to use the shower, not _show_ him.”

“Well, actually you did say ‘show’ him. But don’t worry about it. Thanks for the towels. We’ll be right down.”

Charlie let out a slightly judgmental “Mm-hmm,” but then left him alone. Castiel pulled the tags off the green towels and gave one to Dean although they were mostly air dried by this point. The material was soft and very absorbent. Dean used one to get his short hair mostly dry and then looked at himself in the mirror. Castiel watched him carefully as the man examined his face for several long minutes.

“I’ve never really seen a mirror this clear before,” Dean said. "I had to rely on drawings and paintings to know what I looked like, and no two paintings ever looked the same. Everyone said Lucifer’s was the closest to the real thing. I kind of thought they were making it up because he made me look, well, very handsome. I knew I was attractive, of course. Women, and men, would do ridiculous things for the chance to be with me. But, I never thought I was anything more than about average. It’s odd to see a face that I would deem as…”

“Beautiful,” Castiel supplied softly.

Dean shook his head. “I guess. But that’s not how I ever saw myself. So, it’s odd to see myself this way now. It feels like I’m looking at a stranger.”

Castiel stood next to him and looped an arm with his. He rubbed his still shower-warm skin and didn’t try to offer any response. He wasn’t sure what Dean was looking for. A minute later, Dean gave a shake of his head and pulled back from the mirror.

“Let’s get dressed. And then you can show me how to down…haul the rock music.”

“Download.”

“That too.”

Castiel dressed in the clothes he had been wearing, and forced Dean to try on a pair of briefs. He also encouraged him to put on jeans rather than sweatpants. He complied and paired the jeans with a black tee and yellow-brown plaid button down, which he of course left hanging open. Apparently Dean had found a style he liked and he was sticking to it.

Downstairs, Castiel saw that Charlie had done more than buy just the “necessities.” A large media cabinet had been assembled and a fifty inch flat screen, media drive, and stereo system (complete with a sub-woofer) were being installed in the living room that still had no furniture to sit on in it.

“As soon as I get Dean’s tablet up and going, we’ll let him do some furniture shopping,” Charlie informed them as she supervised the wiring taking place behind the media cabinet.

“Charlie, we have to leave in a couple hours if we’re going to make it back to school. Are they going to have time to finish all this?”

“Yeah, no problem. Here.” She walked over to the peninsula countertop that protruded from the kitchen and picked up a small grey box. She handed it to Castiel and said, “Here’s the tablet. Help him get it set up, and then I’ll get you connected to the building’s Lattice network.”

By the time Castiel and Charlie had to leave for the night, the Nexus Entertainment crew had gotten Dean’s media center completely set up although it had no connection to any TV services, and they had gotten Dean’s tablet set up although he could only confidently turn the thing on and off and access a game of Furious Flyers. They had spent a half hour scrolling through furniture Latticesites until Dean finally just started pointing to things at random, declaring that all he needed was a bed, a desk, and a chair and everything else was modern frivolities. The last thing they did before they left for the evening was to show Dean how to use his phone to order take out. That way he could at least have a hot meal if he couldn’t cook one for himself.

Castiel wanted to kiss Dean goodnight, but he felt awkward with Charlie watching. Instead he mumbled some more instructions about brushing his teeth twice a day and keeping up with the flossing. Then they had to leave Dean alone again and rush to catch the train that would get them to the last bus on time.

“Are we…doing this right?” Castiel asked Charlie as he watched the city zip past him in a blur of lights and dark shadows.

He felt her shrug beside him. “Do you think it would be better to take him out to the countryside and give him a straw hut to live in off the grid? I mean, it would be more familiar to him. But, I don’t think it’s giving him enough credit to think that he can’t handle adapting to the modern world.”

“No, I mean, yes, I know what you mean. I mean, more like…should we be giving him more mental or emotional support? Does he need to see a psychologist?”

“Who would we be able to find who he could tell the whole truth to?”

Castiel shrugged. “I don’t know. No one, I guess. I’m just worried we’re—I’m—hurting him.”

Charlie linked arms with him and leaned her head on his shoulder. She didn’t bother to reply, so he figured she had the same fears.

“Should we read a psychology book or something?” he finally asked.

“Couldn’t hurt, I guess.”

~~~

Wednesday Castiel received stern eye admonishments from all of his professors, including Master Shurley, which was utterly embarrassing. But he couldn’t concentrate knowing Dean was alone in a loft in the middle of Caleus. He’d already survived one night just fine, less one desiccated apple, but as Dean grew more confident with his surroundings, the more he would explore. Plus they had given him access to the Lattice, and that was how most people got into trouble nowadays.

His fears were unfounded, however, when he and Charlie found Dean perfectly intact and well fed after discovering the burger joint three blocks down delivered to his building. He managed to download Aporia’s Minions entire discography and was listening to it out of the speakers on his tablet. Once Charlie got him hooked up to his media center over the wireless network, the hard driving rock music filled up his entire loft. The cable guys managed to arrive within the five hour window they provided and soon Dean was engrossed in figuring out how to use the remote control. Of course that was after spending a good hour marveling at the moving pictures on the screen and asking a hundred questions about how it worked. He tried to open the TV screen no less than three times before they convinced him that would only break it.

Castiel felt a little better about leaving Dean alone again as he seemed clean and engaged about learning about the new world he lived in; also because he made a point to tell Castiel that he’d been doing his “dental care” as instructed. Castiel took the hint and kissed him until Charlie cleared her throat and pointed out the time.

Thursday Castiel started to receive verbal admonishments in class for being distracted and disruptive. Campbell pulled him aside after Art class and asked him if he was having a personal problem and needed someone to talk to. Seeing an opportunity, he made up a story about one of his nephews being ill and the reason he kept checking his phone was in case his family called with an emergency. The answer seemed to placate Campbell, so he used it again in his afternoon classes. He would have felt guiltier about giving one of his nephews a terrible disease, but he never specified which one he was talking about. So, it wasn’t like he was wishing an illness on one in particular. All he could hope for was that the Devil didn’t take advantage of his careless stories. The Beast had been known to use people’s carelessness against them.

When he and Charlie arrived at Dean’ loft that night, they found the man pacing in the safety of his kitchen as the deliverymen from SPEO, a furniture company based out of Caseum (a country on the northern tip of the eastern continent known for excellent meatballs) moved around his place putting together the furniture they had ordered two days before. Charlie and Castiel joined Dean in the kitchen so as to be out of the workers’ way, and within a couple of hours Dean’s place looked like something out of a SPEO catalogue. After the men had received their signature of delivery and left, Castiel turned to Charlie.

“I think you might have gone a little overboard,” Castiel said.

“What? It was just the basics.”

“Just the basics? Charlie, there is a bowl of wicker balls on his coffee table.”

“And I think it really pulls the room together.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and followed Dean out of the kitchen, who was entering the living room space like a baby deer cautiously stepping out of the forest for the first time. He put a hand on the black leather couch and then plopped down onto it. He smiled.

“This is better than the—the air whatever upstairs. I might sleep here tonight.”

“I got you a bed too,” Charlie said. “You’ll like it.”

Dean picked up his tablet, pushed the three buttons he knew to use that got Aporia’s Minions blasting from his stereo, and then relaxed into the couch. He nodded.

“You modern people seem a little prissy, but I understand the appeal of it a bit now.”

They laughed and joined Dean on the couch. They managed to get him to turn the music off and watch one of the movies on their long and ever growing list of Things Dean Has to Watch. Nine o’clock came too soon, and with a hug for Charlie and a kiss for Cas, Dean let them go. Castiel thought there was less tension around his eyes and lips and hoped that meant that Dean was starting to feel like he could belong here.

Friday Castiel did his best to stay focused and behave in class so that he would stop drawing attention to himself. Most of his professors asked after his nephew and he reported that he seemed to be responding to medication. Muses, he was such an asshole for lying about that sort of thing. But he couldn’t worry about his decaying moral center because he had to pack a bag for his trip out to Dean’s. He’d be able to stay the whole weekend and finally have a chance to have a serious discussion with Dean about his headspace.

Headspace. That was a word from one of the psychology books he’d checked out from the library. He didn’t want to try to psychoanalyze Dean, but he wanted to be able to recognize if he was having problems.

On the trip to Dean’s loft, Charlie detailed how her mother had become a huge fan of Billie, a former sitcom star turned daytime talk show host who was also gay and very powerful. She postulated that if her mother thought that Billie was amazing despite being gay, she wouldn’t think Charlie being gay would be such a bad thing. Castiel wasn’t sure how to respond to that plan. He certainly didn’t know enough about her family to say that he was certain they would love her no matter what. He could only hope that her family could recognize that who Charlie was as a person was kind of amazing on its own, and who she loved didn’t fundamentally change anything about her.

“Speaking of being gay though,” Castel said when she paused long enough in her babbling for him to jump in. “What’s going on with you and Ozma?”

“Oh. Well. When she went home for break, she decided it would be fun to get drunk and sleep with half of her sister’s sorority. So…we’re not really what you might call ‘together’ anymore.”

“Yeesh. Sorry about that.”

Charlie sighed. “Yeah. It sucks. But, I honestly didn’t think that this was going to be the ‘until death do us part’ kind of relationship. And if you’re not in a relationship because you think it’s the one you want to be in for the rest of your life, then what’s the point of the relationship? I’m not saying don’t hang out and have fun with someone. Even sexy fun. But why bother with serious, monogamous stuff if you don’t really think you want that person?”

“I guess that makes sense. But what if you don’t know right away? Sometimes you have to feel your way toward it.”

“Eh, maybe. What about Dean? Do you think it’s a forever thing or are you ‘feeling it out?”’

“Well, I can’t abandon him here,” Castiel said. “He’s my responsibility…forever.”

“That’s not a good reason to be with someone.”

“To be with someone, no...I just meant I have to take care of him. Like family. As far as the ‘be with him’ thing, well, I guess that’s covered by the fact that I’m in love with him.”

Charlie let out a soft squeak of laughter and punched him on the arm. “No way. Seriously? That makes me so inexplicably happy! But how do you know? I want to know what I’ll know when I know.”

“You just know, you crazy nut.”

“That’s such a bullshit answer,” she softened the chastisement with a laugh.

Cas shrugged. “What do you want me to say? You look across an art gallery and just feel that a four hundred year old dead guy is your soul mate?”

“Well, I don’t know if I need that much drama.”

They smiled at each other and Castiel pulled his arm from hers so that he could wrap it around her shoulders and pull her close. The gentle hum of the maglev train insulated them in their moment. The man with the beer gut scratching his butt as he let out a short but loud fart brought them out of it. Castiel bobbed his head and then glanced at Charlie.

“Getting any soul mate vibes?”

“Yeah, no,” Charlie replied.

Castiel was in such a good mood that he didn’t mind that it took seven minutes of talking to Dean through the intercom to get them into the building. He didn’t even mind that he had to use his own set of keys to open the door because for some reason Dean wasn’t answering their knocking. What did bother him was that when he walked in he heard the unmistakable sounds of two people fucking like wild jungle monkeys. He had a moment where he actually believed Dean had found someone, stopped mid-coitus to mess with the intercom, and then returned to whoever the slut was so that Cas could catch them in a position as to cause as much heartbreak as possible. Then a fully dressed Dean popped out from around the kitchen wall with such an excited smile on his face that he looked like a ten year old boy with his first dirt bike.

“Is this what you were talking about, Cas?”

Dean walked back into the living area. Castiel and Charlie exchanged looks, and then walked around the kitchen. Playing on the huge TV was a cheap porno, the sounds of which were being blasted in surround sound.

“Oh, Muses,” Charlie breathed. “That is…you talked to him about porn?”

“I mentioned it!” Castiel said. “I talk to you about porn. What’s the difference?”

“Can you believe this is just…on TV?” Dean asked. “Did they get people to agree to do this? Are they Tartarese slaves or something?”

“Slaves?” Charlie asked.

“The Tartarese banned slavery about three hundred years ago,” Castiel said.

“Oh. So, why are these people doing this for other people to watch?”

“They get paid.”

Dean looked back at the screen. “This is a job?” he asked with wonder in his voice.

“Not a job _you_ can do,” Castiel pointed out testily.

Dean just grinned at him. Standing barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt with mussed hair, an amused smile, and porn blaring behind him made him look like a college frat boy.

“Turn that off,” Charlie said, going for the remote and doing it herself. “Sheesh. That stuff is fake you know. No woman gets that turned on by having her breasts touched. Like, they’re not that sensitive.”

“Men are that sensitive,” Dean said.

“Are they?” Charlie asked, looking at Cas with eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Depends on the guy, I guess,” he muttered. “Anyway, Dean, that stuff doesn’t just come on TV. You have to pay for it. Don’t bankrupt yourself on porn.”

“Actually,” Charlie said, “I did get him the cable package that included the Carnal Channel.”

“Charlie,” Castiel sighed.

“What? It was the cheapest way to include the Science and National Wilderness channels.”

Dean leaned over and picked up the remote. He turned on the TV and the grunting and screaming filled the room again. Then he turned it off.

“Just checking to make sure it was still there.”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Alright. Let’s go. I’m taking you outside tonight. We’re going to go buy some groceries and then we’ll come back here and teach you how to use the kitchen.”

“Okay,” Dean said amiably. “Just let me get my boots.”

“Don’t forget socks!” Cas called out as he clomped up the stairs. He looked over at Charlie. She smiled.

“Looks like men haven’t changed much in four hundred years.”

“You hush,” Castiel intoned with a touch of scolding. “Miss Men Are So Delicate And Only Real Women Watch Dirty Porn.”

Charlie chuckled. “Seriously though, my whole family would have been scandalized to see the guy on top.”

Castiel smiled and shook his head. Despite himself, he was very curious what Figiterra porn was like. Dean coming down the stairs was even louder than him going up. They made sure he had his phone, his new wallet with his temporary ID and credits card, and the keys to his loft.

Grocery shopping took longer than Castiel thought it would because Dean was fascinated by the sheer volume of food in one place. He also had never seen many of the varieties of fruits and vegetables that weren’t native to the southern part of the eastern continent. They ended up buying more than even three of them would be able to eat before it spoiled, but Dean was too excited to try everything to deny him.

Back at the loft, Charlie set to work on making one of her favorite dishes from back home. It involved chopping a lot of vegetables, so Castiel was placed on a stool at the peninsula with a cutting board and knife and told to get to work. Dean put on some music to accompany the cooking, and after the third Aporia’s Minions song, Castiel marched over to Dean’s tablet and searched for something else. There was a brief scuffle that resulted in an aborted attempt at a make out session when Charlie squeaked at them with outrage to get back to work. Castiel agreed to get back to work only if they could put on different music. Cooking was abandoned for about twenty minutes while the three of them searched through the music store to find something they could agree on.

They finally sat down to dinner very late, starving and sweaty from more than one mishap in the kitchen. The blame couldn’t even be put all on Dean as Castiel had cut himself slicing the vegetables and Charlie had started a small grease fire. As it turned out, neither of them were inclined toward cooking, but Dean managed to have enough natural instinct that the modern tools didn’t prevent him from knowing when to turn food or take it off the heat.

Castiel was enjoying his last sip of wine and the feel of Dean’s foot hooked around his when Charlie glanced at her watch. She started up and began hauling dishes to the sink.

“Crud. Cas! We gotta go. We’ll miss the train. Dean, I’m sorry to leave such a mess. We’ll look into hiring a maid service for you.”

“I can clean,” Dean said.

“And I can help,” Cas replied, smiling at Dean. “I’m going to stay here tonight.”

Dean smiled back.

“Uh, no you’re not,” Charlie said.

Cas gave her a look that he hoped conveyed to her that she had better stop being a total cockblock.

“Cas, it’s not me. It’s the rain piece, remember? We have to go as a class to the observatory so we can paint rain in light and dark and with lightning.”

“Yeah, but that’s not until Sunday night into Monday.”

“Have you not been paying attention to the weather reports? The storm got here early. We’re going out to the observatory before dawn tomorrow. You wouldn’t be able to catch a bus back in time.”

“Shit.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “They’re going to make us be there all day and night too.”

Charlie nodded. “Most likely.”

Castiel looked up at Dean. “That means you’re going to have to be completely alone all day tomorrow.”

Castiel could see the disappointment in Dean’s eyes, but he shrugged it off. “It’ll probably take more than a day for me to become bored with the porn channel.”

Castiel rolled his eyes and carried his plate into the kitchen. He did feel bad about leaving Dean with such a huge mess, but unfortunately he and Charlie were going to have to run to catch the train they needed. And of course the more cleanup there was, the less time Dean would have for watching porn. Not that he thought there was anything wrong with porn per se, but he supposed he felt a little jealous that other people would turn Dean on. Especially if he wasn’t there to finish him off. Then again, the idea of Dean masturbating was a pleasant fantasy.

With quick hugs and kisses and promises that Castiel would come back as soon as he could on Sunday, he and Charlie were off into the night. They had to fight with the closing doors on the train for them both to get on before it took off, which was aggravating because the bus back to Viridis City was nearly twenty minutes late and they could have caught the next train.

When Castiel was settling into bed, he picked up his phone and considered calling Dean. He was worried he might not be heard over all the grunting, so he texted him instead. He used simple words that hopefully Dean would be able to read, _dinner was good I can’t wait to see you again_ , and then set the phone next to him on his pillow. He wanted to stay awake until he got a response back, but the gentle patter of rain starting on the window panes lulled him quickly to sleep.

~~~

Castiel’s alarm going off coincided with a monstrous crash of thunder. He sat bolt upright, heart pounding in his chest. Lightning flashed outside the window and was quickly followed by more thunder. The storm was sitting right on top of them. With his heart still hammering in his chest, he crawled out of bed and got dressed. He pulled on a slicker and galoshes, and then shoved his supplies into a waterproof canvas bag. The professors would be supplying the materials to paint or draw on at the site, so he had everything he needed.

He met up with the seven other students that remained of the fifteen who had entered the Academy with him a year ago. Odds said only half of them would make it to the third and final year, and then only one maybe two would be selected to stay on as Apprentices. It was still early enough on in the game that everyone was mostly focused on improving their work and expanding their skill; though before long though it would turn to competition.

Everyone was groggy and grumpy about the early hour and the prospect of getting soaked, so they didn’t speak more than a mumbled greeting to each other. They were joined by five Spring Quarter second years who hadn’t had a significant enough storm roll through during their first second year quarter to fulfill the painting rain requirement.

All thirteen students plus the two professors and one Master who had pulled the short straws for chaperone duty were bused out to the Cosmos Observatory. A large telescope and research center were housed at the observatory, which had been built into a solid rock face five hundred meters off the ground. The road up to the site was long and winding and no fewer than four people got motion sick. By the time they were led through the facility to the other side of the rock face to the observation deck and got their supplies set up, the sun was just rising. It was mostly behind the cliff, however, so they spent about an hour still painting in mostly darkness. Aside from the occasional lightning flashes.

The rain poured heavily all day long, the clouds so thick and dark the sun’s rays might as well have been completely swallowed up for all the light they provided. The wind and the lightning blew itself out after four or five hours, and from then on it was just a steady grey downpour. They stayed well past sunset and had to endure a slow precarious trip back down the cliff side due to all the debris that had washed onto the road because of the storm.

Everyone was just as grumpy and miserable when they arrived back at the Academy as when they had left. Castiel did little more than give Charlie a nod, and then spent twenty minutes in the shower trying to warm up from the cold chill that felt like it had sunk into his bones. He was practically asleep on his feet as he put on some pajamas, and then fell into bed with a plan to sleep away most of Sunday the only thought he could muster in his tired brain. The message indicator on his phone was flashing right in his eyes because he’d left his phone on the pillow that morning. He managed to swipe a finger over the lock and look at Dean’s response to his message from the night before.

_I want to see yoo to._

Castiel smiled and his plans to sleep through Sunday immediately evaporated. He set his alarm so that he could catch the earliest bus out of the city center. Then he fell asleep like someone had flipped a switch.

~~~

Even though the wind, lightning, and darkest clouds had moved on, the sky was still overcast and rain fell lightly but steadily on Sunday morning. Castiel was the only one on the early morning bus and was only joined by a few other people on the train platform. The whole city seemed content to sleep through the gloomy Sunday after everyone’s Saturday night was robbed of fun by making it too unpleasant to venture out into the storm.

The stillness followed Castiel the few blocks to Dean’s building, and he used his copy of the keys to bypass the concierge since the weekend worker wouldn’t know he shouldn’t have a copy. He knocked on Dean’s door to be polite, but he received no response. He leaned close to listen through the door, but he heard neither music nor the TV. He glanced at his watch; it was Sunday morning, but it wasn’t really that early. He knocked again, and then used his key when Dean still didn’t come.

Castiel was half expecting to find the place a disaster. More dishes and leftover food piled on top of the mess he and Charlie had made on Friday, tissues scattered all over the living room from a marathon jerk off session to the Carnal Channel. But the place was spotless. The kitchen and living and dining areas looked as they did after the SPEO deliverymen had left. The floors were clean, the surfaces uncluttered, and the curtains, throw pillows, and knickknacks all looked perfectly positioned. The place looked unlived in.

Castiel glanced up the stairs toward the loft. For some reason he didn’t feel any concern that Dean had taken off. He had a feeling he knew exactly where he would be. Castiel mounted the stairs slowly, and crossed the large space to where the king sized bed had been installed under a large window. The rain on the window was the only sound to be heard, and the only light was the weak offering from the dismal day outside.

Dean lay on his side on the bed in nothing but a pair of boxers. He hugged the bottom of a pillow to his chest and let his head rest on the top part. He was awake, and Castiel could tell that he was aware of his presence, but he did nothing to acknowledge it. Castiel sat down on the bed near his hips and reached a hand up to comb his fingers through Dean’s hair. His eyes looked a little unfocused.

“Hey, Dean,” he said quietly, trying his best not to disturb the calm in the room.

Dean didn’t respond verbally, but his head managed a single nod. Castiel petted him for another minute or two before speaking again.

“Are you okay?”

Dean didn’t move right away, then one shoulder gave the barest shrug. Castiel moved his hand down to Dean’s neck and massaged the tight muscles soothingly.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Castiel said, rather than asking outright what was wrong.

After a few silent moments, Castiel thought the man was going to remain taciturn for the whole day. But then in a voice that wasn’t a whisper, but was so empty he sounded far away he said, “I started thinking about how my family is dead.”

Sorrow and compassion took over Castiel’s features, but he didn’t try to say anything. He just continued to massage Dean’s neck and run his fingers through his hair.

“In the military, it’s not uncommon for people you know to be there one moment and gone the next. Even for several people to be killed all at once. But you at least have some warning that it might happen. You have a chance to say goodbye to them. You have other people to share in your grief. You have familiar items and places and people to help you stay grounded and steady. To help you face it rather than hide from it.

“I just…I have this really confusing…hole in me. I don’t know how to fill it. Or what used to be there that’s missing now. I know I miss my brother, but we both knew that we could die at any time. This doesn’t feel like he’s dead. It feels like he’s missing. Or lost. And I don’t know where to look for him.”

Dean’s fingers tightened around the pillow; his eyes remained unfocused.

“I want to be able to get on my horse and just ride around by myself for an hour or two. I want to smell soda bread baking in cast iron pans over campfires. I want to hear someone talk to me in Viridoctran. I want…”

Dean trailed off and Castiel bit his lip to keep it from trembling. He had to wait a few moments to compose himself before he felt confident that he could speak without getting choked up.

“You’re homesick,” Castiel said.

Dean’s eyes cleared a little bit. “Yes. I think I am.” He turned his head so he could look at Castiel. “Please don’t think me ungrateful for everything you’ve done for me…”

Castiel shushed him and couldn’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss his cheek.

“Of course not. I’d be surprised if you didn’t miss home. And your family and friends. Your soldiers. Everything that’s familiar to you. I’m sorry this happened to you. I wish I could undo it. I wish I could…”

Castiel trailed off as he thought for a moment. “I…I wonder if I could return you. Through a painting. Or if I just painted you back in time, would I just get you stuck in another painting?” Castiel groaned softly. “I’m sorry I don’t know enough about how it all works. It would be dangerous to try. Too dangerous. But…if you really wanted to go home…”

“Cas. Castiel.” Dean pushed himself up to one elbow and then sat up completely, putting their faces very close together. He brushed his fingers down Castiel’s cheek. “I appreciate your motivation to help me, but even if you could successfully send me back, it would probably result in drastic changes to this world. The outcome of a battle, a war, changing? Life as you know it may cease to exist. _You_ may cease to exist. I…I can’t do that.”

Castiel’s lips parted and Dean used his thumb to play lightly with his lower lip.

“What happened to me, what I’ve been through, is—in a word—horrific. But if making all that go away meant that I didn’t get to meet you…I’m not sure…Muses. I should be able to choose my life and my family and my country over a man I met in a dream…right?”

Dean looked distressed and Castiel felt like a knife was being plunged into his chest.

“Dean…” he said, voice quiet and broken. “I…”

Dean leaned forward and silenced him with a kiss. Castiel kissed him back and circled his arms around his neck. The kiss was heated and sloppy. They heaved all of their emotions into it to try to forget about why they were so desperate to stay connected. Castiel shoved all thoughts of returning Dean to his time from his mind—even if it wasn’t irresponsibly dangerous to try it—he wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t let Dean go. He was prepared to be selfish for the first time in his life and face whatever consequences may come.

Castiel could feel Dean’s warmth, his realness, in the smooth skin under his hands. He curled his fingers and dragged his fingernails forcefully down Dean’s back, marking him. Dean pulled back with a gasp and a loud groan. Then Castiel was disoriented as he was suddenly flipped over Dean’s body and landed on his back on the bed. Dean slipped his fingers in between the spaces of the buttons on Castiel’s shirt and ripped it open. Castiel’s eyes went wide as he heard buttons skitter across the floor.

“This is my best dress shirt…” Castiel informed him breathlessly.

Dean ignored the complaint and leaned down and kissed him ravenously. Castiel let Dean’s tongue in and moved his hands down to his waist to assist Dean in removing his pants. Their underwear followed shortly after and then they moved together, skin to skin, hands griping and holding so hard they were definitely going to leave marks on each other.

They slotted their legs together and Dean began to rotate his hips so that their cocks were trapped in the delicious friction of their bodies. He increased his pace quickly and Castiel realized he was trying to get them both off already. He pulled back from the kiss and Dean just bent his head to suck a mark onto his neck. Castiel buried his hands in Dean’s hair and moaned softly as Dean rocked their bodies closer to release.

“D-Deannn…Oh, Muses, Dean…wait, wait, Dean, oh muze…”

Dean lifted his head, but didn’t stop moving.

“What, Casha?”

Castiel was a little thrown by the nickname, but then he shook his head.

“H-hold on. Slow down.”

Dean complied and tilted his head in question.

“We don’t have to do it like this. We can…you know. If you want.”

“If I want to what?”

“Um. If you would prefer to have actual sex.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Um.” Castiel blushed, but felt a little ridiculous. If he couldn’t talk about sex it seemed like maybe he shouldn’t be doing it. “If you want to. Um. Be in me.”

Understanding dawned on Dean’s features and he smiled. He moved a hand so that he could play with Cas’ lower lip again with his thumb.

“I would love to do that with you. And we can. But, this way we can both feel pleasure at the same time.”

“Oh, no. Not oral. I mean, yes, definitely we can do that later. But, I mean, if you want to… _be inside me_. Like. Um. Do people from your time know about the other way? I feel like it’s not something that just came about in modern times.”

“What other way?”

“Um. You know that a man can be penetrated. Like women can be, right? Using our, um. Anuses.”

He closed his eyes in embarrassment. It was one thing to talk about sex and another to have to _explain_ it.

“Oh, that,” Dean said, his voice odd. Castiel opened his eyes. “That’s not necessary. I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need for you to be in pain just so that I can feel good.”

Castiel cocked his head. “I wouldn’t be in pain. I mean, I know you’re big.” He couldn’t help but grin at Dean. “But you’re not _that_ big.”

Dean shook his head. “There’s no point if we don’t both feel good. It’s okay. I like it like this.”

“Okay. But, just so you know, _I_ like it like _that_.”

Dean had begun to lean to down to kiss him again, but then he pulled up. “What do you mean? I know it’s painful and uncomfortable.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Then you were doing it wrong, buddy,” he said with a huff of amusement.

Dean sat up on one elbow to put a little space between them. He was scowling a little now.

“I think I know how it works just fine. There’s just nothing enjoyable about it. For either one of us. There’s only so much spit can do, unless you think blood helps.”

Castiel was confused for a moment, and then he laughed. His laughter dissolved into giddy giggles at the prospect that he was going to get to teach Dean how to have anal sex and _enjoy_ it.

“What are you laughing about? You sound like one of those hyenas out in the Vacivo desert.”

“How do you know about hyenas but you’ve never heard of a pineapple? Wait, never mind. Let’s not get off topic. Dean. You agree that in the future we’ve managed to improve music, right?”

Dean shrugged. “Some of it.”

“Okay. Well, don’t you think that in four hundred years we might have figured out how to improve gay sex of the man on man variety?”

Dean looked very uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going, but Castiel was determined to see it through.

“Hang on,” Cas said and wriggled out from underneath Dean enough to reach into the top drawer of one of the nightstands. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of buying some supplies. I guess that was presumptive of me, but it seems like it was a wise decision, huh?”

“What are you mumbling about?”

Castiel produced a bottle of lube and a string of condoms from the drawer. He wiggled the bottle.

“This is lube. It’s slippery. And helps things get into…tight places. I’ll show you how it works. Now, these, I’m pretty sure they had a version of them in your time, right? You’ve heard of condoms.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of them, but if you’re about to tell me that in four hundred years you people have figured out a way to impregnate a man—we have a whole other conversation that we need to have before the lu-lu-b—”

“Lube.”

“Lube conversation.”

Castiel smiled. “No, men can’t pregnant. Well…I suppose that’s actually not entirely true, but for the purposes of this discussion, no. We need the condoms to protect against disease. I mean, no offense, but you guys back then were basically walking petri dishes. We definitely should get you checked for STI’s, but we might need to check you for things like little pox.” Castiel froze as he realized something. He felt a panic attack coming on. “Oh, my Muses. You could be a carrier for little pox. That shit doesn’t even exist anymore! You let it loose here, half the population would die! No one’s even been vaccinated against it in fifty years!”

Dean groaned and rolled off Castiel to the side. He put a hand to his head. “I can’t understand half of what you’re saying. But at the very least you don’t have to worry about getting little pox from me. I had goat pox as a kid, so I can’t get little pox.”

“Goat pox? Oh, I think that’s the thing that helped them figure out how to make vaccines.”

“What is a vax-zine?”

“It’s a shot that has a piece of a bacterium—disease—in it that prevents people from getting sick if they ever are exposed to it.”

Dean ran his tongue along his teeth inside his mouth as he eyed Castiel. He looked like he was half-convinced that Castiel had gone mad.

“Don’t worry about vaccines now,” Castiel waved a dismissive a hand and rolled over so that he was partially on top of Dean. “Let’s talk about condoms and lube.”

“All this talk about disease and I’m not quite sure I’m in such an amorous mood anymore.”

“Now, now,” Castiel said and reached a hand down to grasp Dean’s cock. To his chagrin he found that Dean had gone a bit limp. He worked him in his hand and he started to fill again, letting out a soft sigh. “Don’t lie to me, General. I thought you had more integrity than that.”

“Careful,” Dean teasingly warned. Then he used a hand to pull Castiel’s head down so that he could kiss him.

They made out for a bit, touching and caressing, letting the heat build back up. Then Castiel rolled onto his back and put a pillow under his hips. He drew Dean down to lay beside him and handed him the bottle of lube.

“So. It’s pretty simple. Get some of this stuff on your fingers, and um…start with one and then two and you get the drift, right?”

Dean still looked doubtful, but he opened the bottle of lubricant and gave it sniff. He raised an eyebrow and Cas wondered if he thought no smell was a good thing or a bad thing. Dean tipped the bottle over carefully and a few drops fell onto the finger he held under the tip.

“You have to squeeze it,” Castiel said.

“Hang on,” Dean replied tetchily and rubbed his fingers together. He sniffed his fingers. Castiel sighed softly. “Hush. What is this? It’s slippery like oil, but it doesn’t have that oily feel.”

“It’s water based.”

Dean shook his head and looked at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means it dissolves in water. Oil doesn’t right? But this stuff does. Makes clean up easier. And it’s also less abrasive on skin.”

“And you want me to put this on my finger and then…” He made a shoving motion with his pointer finger.

“Yep. And then you’ll do the same with your dick.”

Dean made a face. “I don’t know. You know what comes out of there, right?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “For the Muses’ sakes. Look, I actually showered this morning. And I cleaned myself. Thoroughly. Secondly, you’ll be wearing the condom, so your delicate bits won’t actually be technically touching mine.”

Dean let out a soft laugh. “And this is supposedly pleasurable?”

Castiel shrugged a shoulder. “Give it a shot.”

Dean gave a shake of his head and said, “Alright. But, I’m trusting you on this. So, how do I put the condom on my fingers?”

“Oh. You don’t…I guess we could get some gloves. But, you can wash your hands. And seriously, you guys drank unfiltered water and peed into pots. This can’t really be that objectionable to you.”

“We don’t pee into pots.”

“Whatever! Stop getting distracted. You’ve gotten me revved up twice now and if I don’t get something up my ass soon, I’ll have to do it myself. And don’t think I won’t.”

“What’s ‘revved’ mean?”

“Um…wound up? Excited.”

“Got it.”

Dean still looked a little doubtful, so Castiel spread his legs a little and gripped Dean’s upper arm.

“Come on, Dean. Don’t you want to fuck me?”

Dean’s face went a little red, but his eyes betrayed exactly how much he wanted that. He poured more lube from the bottle onto his fingers and then tentatively reached a hand down between Castiel’s legs. Cas encouraged him and directed him a bit, getting more turned on just watching the expression on Dean’s face as he rubbed his slick fingers over his perineum and down to his entrance. Dean circled his fingers around the pucker and allowed the pad of his index finger to prod at the center of it. Castiel writhed at the unintentional teasing and undulated his hips to get Dean to move with him.

“Use a little more lube, then push it in,” Cas said, his voice tight with the struggle to remain patient.

Dean complied and applied gentle pressure with his finger, and then the tip popped in and his finger slid in to the knuckle.

“Shit,” Dean breathed.

Castiel arched his back a little and kept a whine behind his teeth. He hadn’t gone this slowly since the very first time he’d ever had sex.

“Okay. Now, just pump it in and out a bit, add some lube to your middle finger, and then put both in.”

“Um. Are you su—”

“And do it fast,” Castiel cut him off. “Please, Dean, you’re killing me here.”

Dean removed his hand. “See? No. I won’t do it if it hurts.”

“Oh, muze. That’s not what I meant. I meant that I need you. I need to feel more of you. I want you to fill me up. I want your cock in me, so we need to get through the fingers a little faster.”

“Really?” Dean asked sounding utterly doubtful. “I…I mean…I tried this once. And it was awful.”

“Dean. Do you trust me not to hurt you?”

He thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded.

“Well, then trust me not to hurt myself.”

Dean nodded again.

“Okay. So, let’s try again. Go ahead and start with two fingers.”

“But—”

“Just trust me.”

Dean still looked a little uncertain, but he poured more (too much) lube onto his index and middle fingers, and then he rubbed over Cas’ entrance again. Castiel bit his lip and nodded to Dean. Finally, he pushed in gently and his fingers slid inside. Cas gripped the sheets.

“Yeah…there we go. Come on, Dean. You know how to finger someone, don’t you?”

He carefully moved his hand for a few strokes, but as soon as he felt how smoothly his fingers were gliding in Castiel’s body, he picked up the pace a bit. Cas smiled and spread his legs wider.

“You’re getting the hang of it now. Press the tips of your fingers down and push your fingers in farther. Muze, like that, now move them to the left—my left—and…” Castiel sucked air in through his teeth. “Oh, Muses, did you feel that?”

“What, this?”

Dean rubbed his fingers over Castiel’s prostate again and he let out a moan as he hitched his legs up a bit.

“Yep, yep. That. That’s a good thing to touch.”

Dean worked over the spot gently, letting his fingers split and slide around it before coming back together to rub over it. Castiel was vaguely aware that his bottom lip hurt from how hard he was biting it.

“Another finger,” he managed to get out.

Dean added even more lube and worked a third finger in. It was a little clumsily done, so Castiel did his best to hide his wince at the sharp pain. But the discomfort dissipated quickly into the rapturous feel of Dean’s thick fingers pumping in and out of his hole, the tips brushing purposefully over his prostate. Castiel’s breathing was becoming uneven because he kept unconsciously holding his breath.

“S-spread your fingers…just a bit…stretch me out.”

Dean complied and Castiel moaned and thrust his hips back on his hand.

“Oh, fuck yes…you’re a muzedamn natural. Just a little more. Unh…”

Castiel couldn’t stop himself from grabbing his cock and giving it hard, slow strokes. Dean watched him with an awed expression and figured out on his own that if he twisted his hand a little bit it made Castiel toss his head on the pillow and beg him not to stop.

“Do—do I need to add another?” Dean asked. “To get you ready?”

“Oh.” Castiel laughed breathlessly. “I’m ready now. I was just enjoying myself.”

Dean laughed in response and pushed his fingers in deep. Castiel keened softly and gripped the base of his cock just in case it got a little carried away.

“So what do I do now?” Dean asked.

“Condom. Put the condom on your dick. Here, I’ll help you.”

Castiel sat up enough so that he could get the condom out of its wrapper, and then slid it down Dean’s long shaft. Feeling him in his hand made Castiel even more impatient to feel that hot, thick length inside him. He lubed Dean up himself because he liked touching him. Dean sat still, but his abs were jumping with tension in the effort to do so. Castiel maneuvered Dean to where he wanted him, and then guided him into position. He lay back on the bed and looked up at Dean. The man still looked a little worried, but it seemed more like it wasn’t concern that he might hurt Cas as it was that he wouldn’t be able to stand the pleasure. Castiel provocatively thrust his hips up a bit.

“Come on, Dean,” he commanded softly.

Dean took his cock in his hand and held it steady as he began to push in gently. Castiel put a hand to his elbow, giving him just enough encouragement to push a little harder. Then the head popped in. Castiel let out a small noise—and it seemed to set Dean off because he suddenly thrust in all the way. Cas moaned in surprise and grabbed onto Dean’s shoulder.

“You okay?” Dean panted, sounding completely overwhelmed.

“Unh-huh. You?”

“Good. M’good.”

“Okay. So. Um. You know what to do from here, right?”

Dean’s chuckle was edged with hysteria. “Y-yeah.”

Dean pulled out to the tip, and then thrust back in. Cas let his head fall back with a hum of pleasure. Then Dean grabbed his hips and started fucking him like a champ. It was a little amateurish in technique and whole lot of wild. Dean punched the neediest, whining noises out of Castiel's throat on every thrust and he had to keep a very loose fist around his dick or he would be in danger of coming way too soon. He wanted Dean to enjoy this as much as possible, but he couldn’t concentrate on whether or not he even was enjoying it. All he knew was that Dean was moving inside him, filling him again and again, and grunting softly in his ear as his hands held him tightly.

“Dean, Dean…are you…because I’m…”

Castiel’s words devolved into a single, steady moan as Dean got up on his knees and began pounding into him faster and harder. Castiel put his hands in his hair, desperately trying to hold back but then he realized all that building pleasure was just rushing around him and spilling out of him. The orgasm faded a bit until he was left with the almost unbearable sensation of persistent stimulation as Dean continued to thrust into him. Cas went completely lax and let his body flop like a rag doll and the man moved in him. Then Dean slammed into him and went still. His fingers dug into Cas’ hips painfully and he groaned long and low in the back of his throat. Castiel raised a leg to tilt his hips, getting Dean just a bit deeper and making him moan appreciatively.

Dean panted heavily where he lay on top of him, and Castiel petted his damp hair soothingly. After several long moments, Dean managed to sit up so that he wasn’t crushing Cas and looked him in the eyes. He bent down and kissed him, though it was a little difficult because they were both still short of breath. Then he sat up and pulled out, and Castiel showed him how to remove the condom and tie it off. Dean settled on his side close to Cas and placed small kisses along the side of his face.

“Good?” Castiel asked.

“Mm,” Dean replied. Then he propped himself on one arm and used the other to lightly trace Castiel’s features with a fingertip. “Thank you. Not for teaching me that. Well, not just for teaching me that. But for being here. And for understanding. And…” Dean looked away, seemingly embarrassed. “For caring.”

Castiel put a hand to Dean’s face and made him look back at him. “Of course I care. And I know I can’t make up for everything you’ve lost, but—” Cas placed his fingers lightly on Dean’s lips to forgo his protest. “But I hope that we can work to get through it together. And maybe one day…this will feel like home.”

Dean’s green eyes studied his face intently, and then he leaned down and kissed him.

“You already do,” Dean whispered.

Castiel smiled against his lips. Then Dean pulled back with a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

“So, when is it my turn to try that?”

~~~

“Yo, Cas!”

Castiel paused just before exiting the Academy’s main entrance. He turned and saw Hael walking toward him with her arms outspread. Charlie, Aaron, and Gilda were right behind her. And so was Ozma. Despite the slight awkwardness that had resulted from the break up, Charlie and Ozma still managed to hang out in group settings because their group was so small now. Castiel wondered why nobody ever tried to make friends with people outside of their incoming class.

“Where are you going?” Hael asked. “You disappear every night there’s not a technique assignment. You go off campus every weekend. Half the time you take Charlie with you. I mean, unless we didn’t know better we’d say that you and Charlie and hooking up again.”

“They never hooked up in the first place,” Ozma felt the need to point out.

“It doesn’t matter. What are you two up to?” Hael demanded to know.

“Nothing,” Castiel replied. “As you can see, I’m leaving now, but Charlie’s not going with me.”

“So where are you going?”

Castiel shrugged. “Nowhere special.”

“Dude,” Aaron said with a laugh. “You’ve got local tail out there, don’t you?”

“What?” Gilda asked, the last one to maintain some semblance of small town innocence.

“He’s got a girlfriend.”

“I do not,” Castiel said stiffly.

“Fine, a boyfriend,” Aaron countered.

Castiel didn’t respond right away because he was wondering if an army general displaced in time who he had extreme affection for could be considered as something so workaday as a “boyfriend.”

“Knew it,” Aaron said.

“You have a boyfriend?” Hael asked, sounding annoyed and disappointed. “We should all be focusing on our art. There’s time for dating and that nonsense later.”

“Easy for the sixteen year old to say,” Cas replied. “And it’s not a big deal. I’m doing fine in my classes.”

“Must be easy when you only have to take two,” Ozma snorted.

“Hey. Art is the same as two classes, so I take four like you do. Stop being jealous that you’re not good enough to be taught Art.”

Everyone let out a soft “Ooo” sound as they looked at Ozma. She frowned at them.

“You realize that’s an insult to all of you too, right?”

Gilda waved her off. “Ignore her, Cas. And ignore Hael too. If you have someone special, that’s really great. You should bring him to campus one day and let us meet him.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Castiel hedged.

“Why not?” Charlie asked.

Castiel looked at her with wide eyes. “Uh…because…I don’t think it would be a good idea for him to come here. Do you?” he asked pointedly.

She shrugged. “I think if he’s going to be a part of your life. Here. Now. That he needs to be a part of all of it.”

Castiel held her gaze and wished they could speak privately for a moment. Not wanting to seem like he was trying to hide anything he replied, “Okay, I’ll ask if he wants to come.”

All he would have to do later is say that Dean was too busy. Or even better, maybe everyone would forget about it. He turned back to the door.

“You guys have fun. I’ll see you later.”

The group continued to migrate toward the cafeteria, and Charlie detoured over to him to give him a hug.

“Hey, I really think you ought to ask him to come.”

“Don’t you think that would be…dangerous?”

“Before you knew about Art, if you saw someone who looked like someone from a four hundred year old painting, would your first thought be that he _is_ the guy from the painting?”

“No. But, there are people here who do know about Art.”

“The Masters? You said yourself that they don’t even know everything that Art can do. They would never guess this. And if you’re nervous about that, don’t introduce him to them. No problem.”

Castiel worried his lower lip with his teeth, and then he said. “I’ll think about it.”

“Ask him. I think he has just as much right as you to make that decision.”

“Fine, fine.”

Charlie gave him her “I just won” smile, and then skipped off to join the rest of their friends. Castiel sighed and shouldered his overnight bag. He walked out of the Academy and down to the bus stop.

That night Dean wanted to impress him by showing him that he could cook something he’d seen on TV. The Food Channel and the History Network were his two favorite channels. If the TV wasn’t showing how to roast a chicken when Castiel walked in the door, it was relating the drama of some famous war or other.

Castiel was more than impressed as he watched Dean move competently around his kitchen. After only a couple of weeks he had learned how everything worked, and now ten weeks since his arrival it seemed like he’d been using the modern equipment all his life. He had settled into the modern world fairly well, as long as he stayed in his loft. Whenever he ventured outside and saw the concrete jungle of Caelus and the zipping cars and trains and fast talking people, he often fell back into a mild depression brought on by homesickness. Castiel tried to help him through those periods when he could by taking him out to authentic Viridoctrin restaurants and finding Viridoctrin movies for them to watch so that Dean could hear his native language. It seemed to help to some degree, and usually within one to two days he was back to trying to learn new things about his new world.

It also helped that they had sex like a couple on their honeymoon, not letting little things like timing or location slow them down. As it turned out, as good as Dean was at giving pleasure, he was a very enthusiastic bottom. Castiel had never much cared what position he took in bed, but it was usually either/or with his former partners. This was the first relationship he’d had where they switched so often he might top and bottom twice in the same day. It was certainly a whole new world for them both.

At the moment Castiel was sitting on a stool at the peninsula, watching Dean hold a pan of cooking pork chops at an angle over the gas flame stovetop as he spooned a thyme and garlic butter sauce over the chops. His own mother had never cooked him a meal this sophisticated. Then again, when one had nine children to feed, sophistication was often sacrificed for ease and speed. It looked like a miserably fastidious process to Castiel, but Dean looked happy. Genuinely happy. Which made Castiel feel the clichéd notions of warmth and fuzziness in full effect.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“I was talking to my friends today, and they asked me if I had a boyfriend.”

“A boyfriend…that’s a beau, right?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

Dean glanced at him with a smile. He gave him a wink. “Yes, you do.”

Castiel chuckled. “Yes, and, well…they asked if they could meet you.”

Dean bobbed his head. “It makes sense that they would be curious.”

“Would you want to meet them?”

“I would. If they’re important to you, I’d like to get to know them.”

“Well, important’s a strong word. Charlie is really the only one I’m close with.”

“I see.”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of it,” Castiel said hurriedly.

“I didn’t think that. I understand. As much as I love you and Charlie, it might behoove me to meet other people. Other than the concierge and the woman who works register nine at the Bullseye.”

“So, you’d feel up to it? You know they’d ask you a lot of questions. You’d have to remember your cover story.”

Dean shrugged. “It’ll be good practice.”

“Okay then. There’s just one more thing.”

“What’s that?” Dean turned off the heat and began to plate the chops, liberally covering them in sauce from the pan.

“They want me to bring you to the Academy.”

“Do you think I shouldn’t go?” he asked, spooning a healthy serving of some very unhealthily buttered and salted mashed potatoes onto their plates.

“I don’t know. I mean, not everyone studied your portrait like I did. Most of them would just pass by it in the Hall. But even if they did notice a striking resemblance between it and you, I seriously doubt anyone would think that it actually was you. After all, there’s a whole meme on the Lattice of people finding old portraits that look a lot like modern celebrities and saying it’s proof of time travel.” Castiel laughed at the ridiculous notion.

“But, it could be true, right? Who’s to say you are the only one in the world who knows how the power of Art works?”

Dean set a plate in front of him, but Castiel barely noticed.

“Fuck me. What if celebrities _are_ from paintings?”

“Then I guess we know that there’s a good chance I won’t just dissolve someday.”

Castiel agreed that was a good point. He picked up his utensils and started to cut into his dinner.

“So, you want to do it then? We could go and meet everyone tomorrow or Sunday.”

Dean sat on the stool beside him. “I’d like that.”

Castiel smiled and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Great. Let’s do it.”

Cas took a bite of his pork chop. “Oh, Muses,” he moaned. “You cook better than you fuck.”

Dean laughed and shook his head. “Challenge accepted,” he said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

~~~

It was just after lunch, and Dean was looking a little shell-shocked from his nearly four hour interrogation. He sat on a bench with Castiel beside him and Charlie standing just behind him. She squeezed his shoulder consolingly.

“I was once held as a prisoner of war and tortured for information and it wasn’t nearly as stressful as that,” Dean murmured.

Castiel patted his hand.

“So…much…talking…”

Charlie rolled her lips in to keep from laughing. She glanced at Cas and he gave her a shake of his head, but he was nearly about to lose his cool too. Dean didn’t seem to mind the idea of being the center of attention and being drilled for answers, but Castiel’s group of friends changed subjects and went on tangents so frequently that he’d barely talked at all and just watched them all go back and forth like he was watching a tennis match. When he had answered a question, everyone had stared at him so intensely that he’d developed a bit of a stutter. Castiel hadn’t even been able to rescue him at lunch time since everyone agreed that it was a good time to get lunch. Dean had then been subjected to the chaotic bustle of a busy cafeteria packed with students, professors, and other employees of the Academy. He knew Dean was used to the chaos of battle, but lasagna day at the Academy’s cafeteria was a bit like a particularly rough game of hurling.

Fortunately after eating, his friends had declared that they needed to work on their projects. They’d all shook Dean’s hand and said it was nice to meet him, and then they had all given Cas discreet thumbs up and lewd gestures of approval. Charlie and Cas had walked Dean out to bronze courtyard for a moment of respite. It was very quiet and calm among the bronze statues, some of which had turned green with age. Charlie leaned over and gave him a little hug.

“I’ve got to go work on my graphic," she told them. "It’s a little harder than I thought it would be. It’s not like painting with a stylus and then using the software for cleanup and styling.”

“Don’t say it like you don’t enjoy it," Cas said.

Charlie shrugged a shoulder. “That’s true: I love it. You guys enjoy the rest of your day. It was nice having you here, Dean.”

Dean waved a distracted hand. Castiel leaned heavily against his side, letting him know that he was there. He wondered if this encounter would trigger another depression. It didn’t matter. They would deal with it like they always did.

“Hey, you want go to my room? We’ll be alone and you can…decompress. Listen to soothing music.”

“You’ll let me listen to Aporia’s Minions again?” he asked, referencing Castiel’s ban on him playing the music anymore while he was around.

Castiel sighed. “I was thinking more like Soundscapes of the Southern Coast, but, yes. You deserve it.”

“Thanks.”

Castiel took his hand and led him out of the courtyard. They wandered through the east wing, making their way over to the west where Castiel’s room was located. He gave a truncated tour of the Academy as they walked and Dean seemed more at ease in the ancient building that had conceded very little to the march of time other than electronic lights. As they were turning a corner, Castiel spotted Campbell pass by at the far end of the hall.

“Campbell!” he yelled. “Oh, Dean, one moment. I need to talk to my mentor really quick. I’ll be right back.” Castiel took off down the hall. “Or you can come meet him!” he called over his shoulder. It only occurred to him after saying that that Campbell would be much more likely to recognize Dean since he had studied Dean’s portrait so closely for the final examination. But Dean’s hair was a little longer now. He left a bit of scruff on his face rather than getting a perfectly clean shave. He wore loose-fitting jeans and plaid and sometimes Castiel had trouble recognizing him as _The Viridoctrin General_.

“Campbell!”

Castiel rounded the corner and slammed into the man. He “oofed” and kept Castiel from falling back onto his butt.

“I heard you the first time,” Campbell said dryly. “Why are you running around the halls like a wild child? You’re almost thirty.”

Castiel flushed. “I’m only twenty-eight.”

“That’s almost thirty, precious.”

Cas rolled eyes and muttered, “Whatever.” Then clearer he said, “I wanted to check in with you about a good time to go over my portfolio and make a plan for what I should take next quarter.”

“I think we'll end Art class a little early on Monday, so you and I can sit down in my office before lunch.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.” Castiel hesitated as he contemplated asking his next question. There had been no drama at all surrounding the disappearance of the painting from the Hall of Portraits for the entire quarter. He didn’t really want to bring it up if people were going to let it go, but then he wondered if it was suspicious he never asked about it. “Um, I was wondering if you knew what was taking so long with Master Lucifer’s painting. _The Viridoctrin General_? The one I copied for my first year final project. They said it had been taken down for restoration and cleaning, but it’s been gone the whole quarter.”

Campbell snorted. “Is that the story they went with?”

“Story?”

“It was stolen.”

“ _What_?!”

Campbell raised an eyebrow and Castiel decided to tone down his acting.

“Sorry. What? It was stolen?”

“Yep.”

“And…they don’t know who did it?”

“No, because the security here is criminally inadequate. A few decades ago there was a group that sneaked in as custodial staff and had a plan to steal nearly thirty different paintings. Fortunately their plan was discovered, but after that no one ever decided that they ought to hire security guards or install cameras. It’s ridiculous. But their logic is that the art is all ‘priceless,’ which essentially means it’s worthless. You can’t sell it anywhere if you stole it nor display it publicly if you bought it.”

“But, don’t people use the black market and take things for private collections they don’t care if nobody ever sees?”

Campbell patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, exactly. Now you see why they’re dumbasses.”

“Do—do they have any suspects?”

“They’re looking into it. They think they have time because the thief stashed it. They’re just waiting for him to figure out a way to come back for it and get it off campus.”

“How do they know he stashed it?”

“Because the one concession to security they do have is that all the paintings have microchips embedded in the frames. They only go off if they’re removed from the building.”

Castiel swallowed. Well, they’d dodged a bullet by hiding it in the building. “They microchipped it to know if it’s in the building, but didn’t add a GPS locator?”

Campbell shrugged. “Dumbasses.”

“Ah.”

“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m late for a meeting, but we’ll talk more on Monday, okay?”

“Sure.”

Campbell turned and began walking down the hall to his original destination. Castiel turned back and wasn’t surprised not to see Dean. After all, Campbell would probably have mentioned it if a beautiful man who looked a lot like their topic of conversation was standing behind him. He wondered why Dean hadn’t come to meet him as he jogged down the corridor. At the end, he glanced up and down the connecting hallway. Dean was nowhere t be found.

“Dean?” Castiel asked softly.

He jogged up a few feet to look down another branching hallway. It was empty. Castiel turned around in confusion. Where would Dean have gone without him? Then he heard a shuddering breath followed by panicked gasping. Castiel followed the sound, his heartrate skyrocketing as he pictured Dean having fallen or scrambling to stay in this reality as he faded away.

Long before he got to the end of the hall, he found Dean hiding in between the space made by two large pillars against a wall. He was crouched down and hugging his knees, rocking gently. His eyes were wild and he whispered manically to himself. Castiel knelt in front of him and took Dean’s shoulders in his hands. He shook him gently at first and then roughly, saying his name until Dean suddenly snapped out of his stupor. His eyes focused on Cas and he reached for him. Castiel winced as Dean’s fingers dug painfully into his forearms, but he was grateful to see that Dean recognized him.

“Dean, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“It’s him. It was him. He betrayed me.”

Castiel shook his head. “What? Who? What are you talking about?”

“It was him. You were talking to him.”

“Who? Master Campbell?”

Dean shook his head. “Sam. That was my brother. He’s here.”


	5. Part V: The Hidden Vault

 

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked from where he sat on his bed, watching Dean pace erratically around his small dorm room. “I mean, I know it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long for you, but it has been over four hundred years since you’ve seen him.”

“Would you ever forget what your brother looks like?” Dean snapped.

Castiel tilted his head slightly in concession. “Well, I don’t think I would. But, I’ve never been away from any of them for more than a year. Not even when Ion was in jail.”

“It’s him,” Dean said, his eyes looking a wild, his body getting tighter because he had to keep turning after taking only four steps because the room was so small.

“But you only saw a glimpse of him. From down a long corridor. Maybe he just looks similar to him.”

Dean shook his head. “I followed you. I walked down the hall to meet your ‘great mentor’ and I saw him. Up close. I don’t think he saw me, but what if he did? What if he’s painting me back into a prison right now?”

Castiel felt his chest constrict. “You don’t…but was Sam even an artist let alone an Artist? Did he study under anyone?”

Dean shook his head again. He kicked Castiel’s desk chair, but otherwise kept up his pacing. “As far as I know he was as untalented as me. More so. When we would draw up strategic plans, he couldn’t even make a straight line. He was definitely not blessed by Linea.”

Castiel pulled on his socked toe. “But I thought you and your brother had a good relationship. You were close. You took care of each other.”

“We did,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“So why by the Muses would he do that to you?”

“I don’t know!” The anger and fear in Dean’s voice was outweighed only by sorrow.

He stopped pacing and collapsed in on himself even though he remained standing. He put a hand over his eyes and his shoulders hunched forward in a sob. Castiel leapt off the bed and pulled Dean into his arms. Dean resisted for a moment, and then allowed himself to be pulled close and comforted.

“Shh, Dean, there’s a lot we don’t know. Maybe…maybe Sam did it to protect you. Or maybe he meant for you both to exit the painting somewhere, but he messed up and you got stuck and he didn’t know what to do. Or…”

“But why is he still alive? He would have had to come out of a painting, like me, right? You said he’s been a Master here for years. This Campbell person. He’s a real person.”

“Well, as real as you,” Castiel murmured, rubbing circles over Dean’s back. “Charlie’s not the only person who could create a fake identity.”

“But who would he know who could do that?”

“I…I guess any Master of Art who knows the power of Art. Just because they’re not teaching it to us and claiming they don’t know anything about it doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth. But…I just can’t believe Master Shurley would be that underhanded.”

Dean pulled away. “Well, I never would have thought my brother could betray me like this. But, here we are.”

“Here we are,” Castiel murmured, watching Dean start his pacing again.

Castiel sat down in his desk chair and powered up his tablet. He pulled up the image Charlie had found of Sam Winchester from when he’d been an elderly magistrate. The painting was attributed to a well-known artist from the late 700’s; not a Master, but popular and well respected. And definitely in his heyday in the late 700’s to early 800’s, when Sam should have been an old man. He zoomed in on the picture.

“Dean, look at this picture. Is this your brother? Maybe he was mislabeled. Charlie and I certainly wouldn’t know better.”

Dean looked very lost in his own thoughts, but he dutifully came to Cas’ side and bent over to examine the portrait. He leaned closer and squinted his eyes.

“Is it hard to tell?” Cas asked.

“No. It’s actually really easy. I was trying to make it _not_ look like him.”

“Oh.”

“Despite the shit spiraling around me right now, I can still say it’s hilarious that he went bald. He was so proud of his hair.”

Castiel smiled when he saw the soft, affectionate expression on Dean’s face. Then the expression hardened and he stood up and crossed his arms.

“So, what does this mean?” Dean asked. “That’s definitely him there, old, in the painting. But that was also definitely my brother I saw in the hallway.”

Castiel turned in his chair and looked up at Dean. “Are you sure? If you say yes I’ll believe you, but are you really one hundred percent, absolutely certain it was Sam?”

Dean paused, like he was thinking, but Cas suspected Dean was just doing that for his benefit.

“I’m certain,” Dean said.

“Okay,” Cas said. He exhaled slowly. “Okay. So, we’ll be careful to get you home today. And then…I’ll quit school. And we’ll get you out of the city and far away from here.”

“What?” Dean looked startled, like Cas had started discussing the finer points of interior design. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got to get you away from him. He may still bear a grudge. Or he may be worried we would expose him now that we know the truth. He’s bound to be more powerful with his artistry than me. At the very least he will know a lot more than me. He’s got centuries of knowledge on me. We’ll be safest if we go where he won’t ever come across you and know you got out.”

“Cas, you can’t give up your future—”

“I’m not. You’re my future. That’s what I won’t give up.”

Dean’s face turned into a comical mixture of sappy happiness and embarrassed chagrin.

“Cas, I appreciate that—what you’re willing to do for me. What you’ve already done. But, I know art is your greatest passion.”

“I can paint anywhere, Dean.”

“I know. But it’s more than that. I couldn’t live knowing…that Sam was here. That he had done this to me. I can’t leave it like this.”

“Oh.” Castiel started to feel uneasy. He hoped Dean didn’t have some stupid notion that he would challenge his brother to a duel or something.

“Besides, if you quit, they’ll clean out that locker. Maybe to get your portrait to paint you to forget what you know. Which means they’ll find my portrait. He’ll see that it’s empty. He’ll know.”

“Shit,” Cas said with feeling. “I didn’t even think about that. We should have burned the damn thing. We still can. I can get Charlie to unlock the doors and we can—”

“No,” Dean said adamantly. “I wouldn’t be able to rest, Cas. We could go hide, but I’ll never be there with you. Not really. I have to confront him.”

Castiel jumped to his feet and put up a hand. “Whoa, whoa. Don’t go off all crazy and half-cocked though. Let Charlie and me do research. Let us try to find out how he did it. Or to learn more about Art so that we can be prepared if he tries anything. You’re a general, right? Would you ever just charge into battle blind, or would you try to gather some intelligence first?”

“Don’t try to use relatable metaphors on me,” Dean grumbled as he crossed his arms in a huff.

Castiel smiled and stepped close. He put his hands on Dean’s elbows and rose up on his toes to kiss his cheek.

“Let’s just be rational about this. We’ll figure out what to do. I promise. But let’s be smart and safe about it.”

Dean nodded. “Okay.”

Castiel cupped Dean’s cheek with his palm and he leaned into it as his eyes closed tiredly. He stayed that way a moment, and then he opened his eyes and met Castiel’s. Castiel saw the shift in him a moment before Dean surged forward and grabbed his face, kissing him hard and rough.

“D-Dean…”

“Please,” Dean murmured, kissing his face and pulling at his clothes. “I don’t want to think about it right now. Make me forget. Just for a little while.”

“Okay.”

Castiel turned his face so Dean could kiss him again and offered no resistance as he bore him down onto the bed.

~~~

“Where are you from originally?” Cas asked. “It’s not in your bio.”

Campbell—Sam?—looked up from the painting he was currently working on of a political summit that had taken place a week prior. Castiel tried to look at him casually, but he had a feeling his fidgeting hands were giving away that he was a little nervous.

“Um, here,” Campbell replied. “I was born and raised in Caelus.”

“Oh. So, your family still lives here?”

“Well, my father passed away a few years ago, but my mother and sister still live out in the residential circle.”

“Oh.”

Castiel had been expecting a story about an orphan from the countryside. “Do you have any pictures?”

Campbell added a highlight to the brow of some foreign dignitary, and then stopped altogether to turn and look at Cas.

“You want to see pictures of my family?”

“I-is that odd?”

“Well, we haven’t discussed anything personal in the year we’ve known each other.”

“And isn’t that sad?” Cas asked, hoping his tone came off as someone genuinely interested in his mentor and not someone scared to death he was talking to an ancient and evil Master of Art.

“I guess.” Campbell pulled his phone out of his pocket and used his one clean finger to tap the screen a few times. Then he showed a picture of a man, woman, and young girl standing at the Shrine of Umbra in the eastern quadrant of Caelus. “This was a family trip we took to the eastern quadrant when I was still in high school. That’s my mom and dad. And my sister, Madia.”

Castiel nodded as he looked at the family. They all had brown hair and brown eyes like Campbell. They could be related or they might not be.

“Were you the designated photographer for the trip?”

Campbell shrugged. “Well, I took that picture.”

Castiel nodded. He was a little confused that there was no hem-hawing and stuttering and claiming that all his pictures of his family had been destroyed in a fire. These looked like real people. Cas didn’t think it was possible to paint oneself into someone’s womb. At least, he really hoped not. Then again, Campbell wasn’t actually in the picture with the family. He could have found that image on the Lattice. There was no way to ask to see him in a picture with his family without appearing a little weird. Also, if Campbell were Sam, the question might set off a warning bell.

“High school, huh?” Cas said, knowing he sounded fake and stilted. “I’d love to see a picture of you that young.” He laughed to make the comment seem lighthearted.

Campbell gave him a smile and picked up his brush again. “I don’t have one on my phone, but I assure I was just as handsome then as I am now.”

Cas laughed for real, and then looked down with a blush as Campbell shot him a knowing look. The guy thought Cas had a crush on him. He supposed that was better than him even sniffing at the truth behind Castiel’s curiosity.

“So, _Castiel_ , since we’re getting personal, does your name have any special significance?”

“Like what?”

“Well, I thought people from the southern coast gave their kids really old, traditional names. And had really weird naming conventions based on birth order and the time of year and all that.”

“I-I guess we sort of do that. But it’s not really all that weird. A lot of people are influenced by the season or time of year when they name their child.”

“Yeah, but don’t you guys give twins the same name? That’s kind of messed up.”

“There should be only one name at birth,” Castiel mumbled, wondering if Hanna and Hannah disliked having the same name. They’d never said so before. “It’s why we don’t have middle names like you Caelens. You’re always trying to put labels on things.”

“Sure, sure. We’re the weird ones,” Campbell said with a smile and returned to his painting.

Castiel watched his skilled hand move delicately over the canvas. He repressed his sigh. He didn’t want to believe that Campbell was a bad guy. And he hadn’t stumbled over his backstory. Then again, if he’d been doing this for four hundred years, he’d probably learned that he needed to have his story straight for when people asked routine questions like “where are you from” and “do you have any siblings.”

Castiel realized he’d been hoping that Sam would stumble and give himself away—if he was in fact Sam. He believed that Dean believed this man was his brother, but it was just so hard to…believe. He was going to need Charlie to dig into Campbell’s past. The Lattice knew everyone’s secrets.

~~~

Castiel sat on the couch in Dean’s loft, watching Charlie’s fingers fly over the attachable keyboard of her tablet from where she sat on the floor scooted up under the coffee table. Dean lay on the couch with his head in Cas’ lap. Cas combed his fingers through Dean’s hair, wondering if his touch comforted the man at all.

For the past two weeks since the discovery of his brother’s betrayal, Dean had been quiet and withdrawn. Except for when he could get Castiel into bed. Then he was engaged and amorous, his eyes almost febrile with intensity. Castiel knew Dean was using their physical intimacy as a way of forgetting everything else, but he didn’t hold it against him. He didn’t feel like he was being used either. He was grateful he was able to do something to comfort him because thus far his research had proved ineffectual at discovering anything useful. The biggest problem being that they didn’t know what they were looking for.

Four hundred years later, Sam couldn’t possibly still be planning anything against his brother. So, they weren’t looking to thwart any plans that might endanger Dean’s life. He’d only be in danger if Sam thought that Dean had somehow escaped the painting. Based on his conversations with him though, Campbell—Sam—didn’t seem all that interested in the fact that Dean’s stolen portrait was still missing. Cas supposed he could just be a really good actor, but he suspected that Campbell’s hubris was so great that he didn’t suspect it was possible that anyone would have found a way to get Dean out.

Castiel still couldn’t really bring himself to think of Campbell as Sam. Based on the way Dean described him, Sam and Campbell were nothing alike. Then again, he wondered how different he might be after four hundred years. Would he have seen and felt and experienced so much that he would essentially be a different person? And how would he even live for that long? As far as he knew while you could paint yourself into the past, you couldn’t paint yourself into the future. The power of Art seemed to fall apart the less details there were in a painting, and it was impossible to paint something that hadn’t happened yet. Not to mention the fact that the power could only affect what had been painted, which was why when they had opened the door to the war room in Dean’s painting they had stepped outside into the present day and time.

Sam couldn’t paint himself into the future. And if he painted himself into a painting to be preserved over a series of years or decades, when he used the curlicue pattern and door to escape the painting, he would go back to the place and time he entered it. There was something Castiel was missing—something that would explain how a man could be the same after four hundred years using the power of Art.

“Ah-ha!” Charlie said.

She turned to look back at Dean and Cas and angled her screen toward them. Dean sat up and leaned his arms heavily on his thighs as he squinted at the screen.

“So, Campbell’s records are totally legit. He has a birth certificate for Caelus with the right dates and he has an ID number and all that good stuff. If someone were to look him up, it looks like he was born forty-two years ago to a couple in the third quadrant of the city.”

“I take it that’s not what the ‘ah-ha’ was about,” Cas said.

“No. The ah-ha was because I was able to hack into the meta data and find out _when_ the records were created. Technically they should have been put into the system forty-two years ago, right? But the timestamp shows that these records were only added fifteen years ago. So, Campbell has only legally existed for fifteen years even though he created records of himself going back to his supposed birth. Like what I did for Dean. His meta data would show that his records were created only a few weeks ago.”

“Is that something people could find? Can you hide or change that?”

“Unfortunately no, I can’t change when I made the records because that’s when they were made. But only someone with skills like mine could find it. And even then someone would have to be specifically looking to find it. Which is unlikely, since there’s nothing suspicious about Dean as far as other hackers of the world are concerned.

“What’s interesting about the fifteen years ago though, that’s also when Campbell received his invitation to the International Academy of Art. He was picked at an older age, like you, Cas. So, he begins to exist once he moves into the Academy. I tried to find any of his pre-Academy works online, but I can’t find anything. I mean, he wouldn’t have been a Master yet, so people don’t really keep careful records about unknown artist works, but it’s strange that there’s not a single piece of his available out there for viewing that predates his tenure at the Academy. How would the Academy have found him to invite him otherwise? I kind of want to hack into the Academy’s records now to find out what criteria they used to select him.”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. Their system is easy.”

“But what does this tell us?” Dean asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “We already knew he had to be using a fake identity.”

Cas and Charlie exchanged looks.

“Well, I guess _you_ knew,” Charlie said. “This just backs you up.”

Dean sat back into the couch and crossed his arms. “Okay. Great. So I was right. My brother is an evil douche who kept me locked into a painting for centuries. He also has a friend who can hack records for him. What are we going to do about it?”

“Do? What do you mean?” Cas asked.

Dean looked back and forth between Cas’ and Charlie’s blank faces. “Well, we have to do something, right? He could be doing this to other people. He’s clearly doing something to stay alive forever. We can’t let him…” Dean trailed off and looked down. “I guess we can,” he muttered. “Who cares if he’s still alive another four hundred years from now? We’ll all be dead anyway.”

Castiel reached out and put a hand on Dean’s knee. “You want to confront him,” Castiel said softly.

“Well, yeah!” Dean exploded and stood up from the couch. He began to pace around. “Haven’t I earned that? Don’t I have the right to force him to look in my eyes and try to explain why he did this to me?! I deserve something! It just doesn’t make sense!”

Dean stormed into the kitchen and yanked open the refrigerator door. He pulled out a bottle of beer, popped off the cap, but then set it down before he drank from it. He muttered to himself as he walked over to the cabinet that was now stocked with various brands of whisky and vodka. He took off the cap to a fairly expensive whisky and took three big gulps straight from the bottle.

Castiel leaned on the back of the couch and refrained from commenting on Dean’s decision to drink away his feelings.

“Dean,” he began carefully, “of course you have a right to confront him. We’re just worried about what he’ll do if he’s exposed. He has the power to do really unpleasant things to all of us, and I don’t know enough to combat him.”

“Well, he can’t do anything if he’s dead,” Dean ground out and took another swig.

“You’d kill your brother?” Charlie asked, quiet as a mouse.

“It’d be no less than he deserved,” Dean said harshly, although the conflict on his face was clear to see.

“The problem though,” Cas said, trying to use reason to break the turmoil of emotion engulfing Dean, “is that to this world, he is legitimately Master John Campbell. There would be a trial, and I don’t think ‘he’s an immortal who trapped me in a painting’ would fly as a defense.”

“There’d only be a trial if I got caught. And if they could find a body.”

Charlie’s eyebrows shot up and she looked at Cas with a helpless expression.

“Before we contemplate fratricide—” Cas started.

“I’ve already contemplated it,” Dean grumbled.

“Before we commit to a plan of fratricide,” Castiel said, giving Dean a look that dared him to contradict him again. Dean just looked away and took a gulp of whisky. “I would feel better—safer—about confronting him if I could understand how he was doing it. There’s still a lot of for me to learn about Art. He’s got a bit of an edge on me when it comes to knowledge of this stuff.”

“How long will that take?” Dean asked. “Weeks? Months? Probably years or decades, right? And even then you still won’t catch up to him. You’ll never be able to know as much as he does. He’s been doing this and practicing for centuries.”

“I know that, but I need to know a little bit more. There’s still a ton of books in the basement of the library I haven’t even cracked open yet. Maybe there are some that talk about counteracting spells, or at least providing protection from others trying to use Art against you. Wouldn’t it be better if we could protect ourselves before we talked to him?”

“How fast do you think he can paint? And how can he paint with broken fingers?”

“Dean,” Cas said reprovingly.

“I get what you’re saying, Cas, I do. People have been trying to tell me all my life it’s better to wait and act with a plan than to charge in headlong. But sometimes, the element of surprise is all you need. Which is what we have now. We may lose that advantage if he ever figures out that I got out. Or if you slip up when talking to him and he realizes you know more than you should about the power of Art.”

“Just…give us a few more weeks.”

Dean’s brow creased and he opened his mouth to protest, but Cas cut him off.

“A couple of weeks then. Just let Charlie and me do a little more research and get her caught up on how to mix paints so that she can help if she needs to.”

Dean set the bottle down on the counter, and the knot in Castiel’s chest loosened a bit. He crossed back over to the living room and looked down at them.

“Let me do research too then.”

“How?” Charlie asked. “You can still barely work the intercom let alone a tablet.”

“Has no problem finding the porn on the TV though,” Cas mumbled.

Dean lifted an eyebrow at him, but didn’t respond to the comment. “Take me to the library. I can read through the books. I know what to look for. And I know Sam; I know what sort of things would have drawn his interest and what he would have been most adept at.”

Charlie and Cas exchanged looks again, neither one mentioning that Dean hadn’t known his brother well enough to suspect that he was going to betray and imprison him.

“I think you could help with the research,” Cas said, "but it’s too risky to take you back to campus. He could see you.”

“You said no one ever goes in the basement but you two. Also, you pointed out the library to me when we went the first time. The bus stopped there before the main Academy doors. So, we would get off and go to the basement before we ever reached the school. He would have to be walking near the library at the exact moment the bus dropped us off.”

“Or he could already be in the library,” Charlie said. “He could see us come in and we’d never see him if he was behind a bookshelf or on an upper level.”

“When was the last time a Master went to the library?” Cas asked.

Charlie got off the floor and put her hands on her hips. “You’re not seriously considering this, are you? It’s way too risky. Not only for Campbell to see Dean, but if Dean sees him—what if he goes all _Amicis Chainsaw Murderer_ on us? We wouldn’t be able to help him with so many witnesses.”

“Charlie, come on, that wouldn’t happen. Where is Dean going to get a chainsaw?”

“ _Cas_.”

“What would you want if it was you, Charlie? To sit around waiting, hiding, with absolutely no control over your own fate? Dean’s been impotent for so long now—”

“Hey, whoa,” Dean interjected, “let’s use a different word.”

“—it doesn’t seem right for us to force him to sit on his hands while we go about with our own lives. Doing research when we have a chance to after classes and activities. He shouldn’t have to wait for us to fit him into our schedule.”

“We wouldn’t—”

“But wouldn’t we? We can’t stop going to classes or attending events. Forget about it being suspicious, we could get in enough trouble that we’d get expelled. Then we’d lose access to the basement altogether. We can’t afford that.”

Charlie lowered her hands. She looked resigned to Cas’ reasoning. She looked up at Dean.

“Dean, don’t think my hesitance is because I don’t want to help you or don’t believe in your capabilities. I’m just worried. I’m scared for you. He’s already hurt you so much—I’m just so worried about what he might do to you if he found you.”

“I understand. And I appreciate that. But…I can’t just sit here. I’m not built for that. I have to do something. Even if it’s research or planning. I didn’t get to be a general in the Viridoctrin Royal Army because all I know how to do is stab people with a sword. But I’ve never been someone who can be inactive. Not both physically and mentally. That…it would be like being back in the painting. Only this time I’d be aware of it.”

Castiel stood up from the couch and walked around it so that he could rub Dean’s arms comfortingly.

“I’ll never let that happen to you again. I promise. As long as I have a say in it, you’ll always be free.”

Dean raised his hands, trapping Castiel’s elbows so that he could pull him forward into an embrace.

“Thank you for understanding.”

Castiel hugged him tightly and tucked his face against Dean’s neck.

“I understand too,” Charlie said in a small voice.

Cas looked over at her and she looked sad to be left out of the moment. Dean held out a hand to her and she hurried in to snuggle against them both.

“This is it then,” Dean said. “Team Free Will: a hacker, a novice Artist, and a four hundred year old relic. Awesome.”

~~~

“Two sets of gloves please,” Castiel asked the woman at the circulation desk. He was twitching and not making eye contact. He looked totally suspicious, which was ridiculous because he’d been asking for two sets of gloves for weeks with no problem because he’d get one for himself and Charlie all the time. Now that he was “sneaking” someone in, all of his nervous mannerisms took over.

The woman retrieved the gloves and handed them over without question. She didn’t seem to suspect anything, although it did appear that she thought Castiel was an odd duck. He could live with that. He hurried over to the basement door and found Dean waiting behind a bookshelf and pretending to look at the titles of fifth century surrealist painters biographies.

“I saw one of his paintings once in a palace,” Dean said, pointing to a book about Dalvido Saldi. “Sometimes I don’t get what you artsy people consider to be ‘artsy.’”

“Saldi’s not my favorite either,” Cas said distractedly. “Let’s go. Come on.”

Dean walked over to the open basement door and started walking down the stairs. It was a totally normal movement that didn’t draw attention to him or Cas. Unfortunately Castiel ruined the smoothness of Dean’s entrance by glancing furtively around the room and up at the balconies above. Fortunately there was no one around to see his highly suspicious behavior, or someone might have called him out on it. He shut the door behind them and hurried down the stairs, relief washing over him as he felt relatively protected in the basement. He quickly explained the content of each shelf to Dean, and then showed him to where the books about Art techniques were shelved.

“Now, most of these won’t be very useful as they talk about Art as I’m currently being taught about it, which is to say a very watered down version. We should try to see if there are any older books that have been misfiled or hidden behind—what are you doing?”

Dean had wandered away from Castiel and was looking at the wall that closed off the small chamber. He scuffed his boot along the floor at the edge of the wall and placed his hands flat against the brick surface.

“You know there’s something back there, right?” Dean asked.

Cas shrugged. “Well, yeah, I guess. I mean, it’s obvious this room is smaller than the house itself. I mean, it could be solid rock or earth though. They just didn’t bother to dig out the whole space.”

Dean shook his head and slid his hands over the wall, occasionally slapping it with his palm or rapping on it with his knuckles. Then he stopped moving and banged the side of his fist against a certain spot. It made a dull, hollow sound.

“It’s not solid,” Dean said. “There’s a room behind this wall. Is there another set of stairs that accesses another basement room?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t know where everything is in the building, of course, but there’s not a corresponding set of stairs on the other side of the library. I know that much.”

“Hmm,” Dean hummed thoughtfully and stepped back as he continued to examine the wall.

Castiel waited a little awkwardly as Dean seemed fully engrossed by the brick and mortar barrier. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Maybe we should…”

“Ah,” Dean said, clearly not paying Cas any attention. He stepped over to the corner and began pressing and pulling on a brick in the top right corner. The brick did look like it was a slightly different shade of red from the rest of the wall, but Cas didn’t think it really stood out. The brick made a stony scraping sound as it sunk into the wall and then something “clicked.” A small portion of the wall pulled back and swung inward, revealing a passageway. Castiel gaped at the hidden door. He hadn’t seen the seam in the wall at all. It had been perfectly hidden.

“Do you have a light?” Dean asked.

Castiel pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight app. He sidled up close to Dean and held the light in front of them as they stepped into the room. He was expecting the place to be totally covered in dust and spider webs, like the way hidden chambers were in movies. While there was a little dust, it was a fairly disappointing discovery as the place was clean and tidy with wooden canvas crates racked in neat rows. A quick examination of the wall nearest to them revealed a light switch. Cas turned it on and a couple of old-fashioned iridescent light bulbs flickered on. It illuminated the room enough that Cas could turn off his phone, but the lighting was still very dim.

Dean began to look around the room to see if there was anything besides the racks of crates. Cas noticed that the crates closer to the door were newer while the others showed signs of age. Each one was marked with a year and a name. The one closest to the door simply read, 1064, John Campbell. The year was from fifteen years ago—when John Campbell first appeared in Caelus’ records according to Charlie.

Castiel dragged the crate out of the rack and looked for a way to get into the tall, slender box. It seemed to be sealed completely shut, until Cas stood on his tiptoes and realized the top was open.

“Dean. Come help me pull this painting out.”

Dean left off examining the other walls, probably for more hidden doors, and stood on the other side of the crate. A large canvas had been stretched on a wooden frame, but not put into a decorative finishing frame. That made it lighter and a little easier for the two of them to get a grip on the top and slowly work it out of the box. They had to tilt to crate and slide it out because the ceiling was too low for the six foot tall painting to make it out. They sat it on the floor and leaned it up against the crate.  Then they moved around to the front so that they could look at it.

Castiel chewed on his lip as he examined the painting. He’d been expecting something that would immediately explain the secret to Campbell’s immortality. All he saw was a painting of an empty room. A very well done painting that had all the hallmarks of Master Campbell’s handiwork down in impeccable detail, but nothing that immediately jumped out at him to explain the mystery of Campbell’s continued existence. He leaned in close, looking for any Art symbols, but there were none. Not even a door with a curlicue design. As far as he could tell, the painting wasn’t Art at all. Just a regular old work of art. Although Castiel couldn’t shake how it reminded him of Dean’s original painting and the one he had done. They had turned into paintings of empty rooms as well.

“Help me with the others, please?” Cas asked as he moved on to the next crate.

They worked on pulling out painting after painting, each one depicting an empty room done in shifting styles over the decades and centuries, but clearly done by the same hand. Castiel couldn’t help but notice that many of the names were well known Master artists whom he had studied about in school. In between each Master were one or two names that were unfamiliar to him, making the Master personas appear just far enough apart that a new generation of Masters would have been his contemporaries. Castiel didn’t recognize any of the rooms, although there were a few where the walls clearly looked like the green marble of the Academy.

Castiel couldn’t believe how no one had ever questioned why Master Dextera’s and Master Pertitia’s and Master Baum’s styles were so similar. Three Masters whose works spanned two hundred years all had the same traits. Sure the brushstrokes were a little different, the pressure, the color choices, the amount and thickness of the paint—but side by side like this…it was clear that they had all been done by the same man. In fact, they looked very similar to the style used in the painting he had stared at and copied for a year. Master Lucifer’s touch could be seen in every brushstroke.

In the oldest paintings, Castiel did find symbols along the edges of the painting and around a few of the objects in the room. He thought they might have to do with steadiness of hand and change and persuasion, but he didn’t remember them all as well as Charlie did. He was going to need to bring her down to the hidden vault to examine the paintings. It was going to take them days, probably weeks, to examine each painting carefully and in detail. He knew Dean was not going to like that news.

Then Cas spotted something in the dim back corner of the room, where the light from the dull bulbs barely reached. It looked like it might be a framed painting leaning against the wall, but it was hidden under a dirtied drop cloth. Castiel peeked under the cloth and saw a very familiar frame and the edge of a painted table. He pulled the cloth off and immediately fell into a coughing fit as a thick cloud of dust and dirt exploded around him. He had to walk away in order to find clean enough air to clear his lungs and Dean hovered worriedly around him. By the time he was done coughing, his throat was scratchy and tear tracks streaked his cheeks.

“Careful,” Cas rasped. “It’s a little dusty over there.”

Dean lips attempted to twist into a smile, but he was too worried about Castiel, who was still letting out short coughs.

“Should we take a break?” Dean asked. “We’ve been down here a couple of hours at least.”

Cas nodded. “Yeah, I could use some water. I just want to see what the last painting is. It has the same frame that’s on your painting. Or, the painting you _were_ in, rather.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, still hovering.

Cas patted his shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly. “I’m sure. I’m fine.” He let out another little cough, unreassuringly. Dean relented, however, and together they walked back to the corner and carefully moved the cloth out of the way so as to stir up as little dust as possible. Castiel was right. It was the war room. Dean’s war room. Every detail was the same—the placement of objects, the colors, the thickness of the paint, the multitude of symbols blended into the images.

The only thing noticeable to a trained eye like Castiel’s was that the reflections and shadows were slightly different, and seemed to be the result of the sunlight coming in from the window at a different time of day. Of course the other difference was that this painting was neither empty nor did it have Dean in it. It did have a man though. Tall, blonde, and with a rather unpleasant smile on his face. He was painted toward the back of the room and his hands were tied with rope to the doorknob which had “lock” painted into the keyhole. Castiel didn’t recognize the man, so he turned to Dean to ask him if he did. One look at his stony features and rage-filled eyes told Castiel that Dean knew exactly who was in the painting.

“Who is that, Dean?”

“It’s Damian Lucifer,” Dean said, his voice low and gruff. “The great Master Artist.”

Castiel looked back at the painting and studied the man. Until the invention of photography, there were no images of previous Masters—for reasons obvious to Castiel now. It was strange to see that the man who had painted such masterpieces as _The Vessel_ , _Celestians at the Falls_ , and, of course, _The Viridoctrin General_ was—just a man. It was so easy to aggrandize the Masters of old that it was a bit of a shock to see a bit of an upturned nose and greasy hair on a legend.

“Why would Lucifer paint himself into a copy of your painting?” Castiel pondered aloud. “Or, an empty copy, I guess. And why is he tied to the door?”

“Sam must have done it,” Dean said, his voice tight. “He must have trapped Lucifer in the room and then trapped him in the painting—like he did to me.”

“But you said he wasn’t an artist or an Artist. This work is clearly that of Master Lucifer. How could he have hidden a talent so strong that he could flawlessly mimic a Master Artist? It’s really difficult to make perfect forgeries.”

“What other explanation is there?”

Castiel chewed his lip as he looked the painting over. “I don’t know…” He leaned forward and looked at a piece of paper on the war room table. It was at an angle which made it nearly impossible to see the thin brushstrokes that had added detail to the surface. Outside the painting it looked like it could be a blank sheet of paper, but inside the painting, if one was standing over the table, it probably looked like a door with an intricate design around the edges. It was the escape door. Castiel pointed to it.

“There’s a door. Someone painted a door to get out of the painting, and I can’t tell for certain, but I think the curlicue pattern has been completed. Which means—”

“Someone got out of the painting,” Dean finished. “Sam. So, maybe Lucifer tried to paint Sam into a prison, but he was able to escape. And then he just didn’t know how to save me…”

Castiel was touched, but also a little alarmed by how easily Dean latched onto this theory. If it meant Sam hadn't betrayed him and hurt him, he’d probably be willing to believe anything. Which was why Castiel was hesitant to share his theory.

“But then why is Lucifer in the painting? And tied up? I suppose Lucifer could have put them both in the painting, and Sam tied him up (which changed the painting) and forced him to reveal how to escape the painting.”

“That makes sense,” Dean said.

“It does, a bit. But why would Lucifer tell him how to get out of the painting knowing that he’d be trapped either way? I think…and this might explain Sam’s immortality too…Remember when we came out of the painting and I said that my clothing had changed?”

“Why are you changing the topic?” Dean asked with exasperation.

“I’m not. I was wearing a different set of clothes when I went into the painting. I came out wearing what I had painted myself as wearing.”

“So?”

“So, I think if you paint yourself into a painting, you come out looking like the painting and not what you originally went in as. The reason all those paintings over there are empty, is because Sam painted a younger version of himself, entered the painting, and then exited using the escape door as his younger self.”

“So why aren’t there old man versions of himself left behind?”

“Because he never painted in the old version of himself. He only made the younger one so that when he entered the painting the only body he could occupy was the younger one.”

“Ah…I see.”

“And…I think…I mean, I don’t know for sure, it’s just a theory. I would need to analyze the symbols and consult with Charlie and—”

“Cas. What is it?”

“I think…it’s not Sam who’s been doing all this. Campbell, even though he looks like your brother, isn’t Sam. It’s Lucifer. I think he somehow managed to…paint himself into your brother’s body. And when he used the escape door, he came out as Sam—or at least looking like him—and left his actual body behind.”

They both looked back at the man tied to the door.

“So…that’s just an empty shell he left behind.”

“I think so. Well, either that or…” Castiel cut off and forced a cough. “I need some water. We’ll talk more about this when we can get Charlie in here to help us track down the meanings of these symbols. She’s been digitizing them into a database to make it easier to…”

Castiel stopped talking and glanced back when he realized Dean wasn’t following him out of the room. He had moved closer to the painting and placed gentle, trembling fingers against the painted man’s face.

“This could be Sam,” Dean whispered, sounding horrified. “If he was able to switch into Sam’s body, doesn’t that mean Sam would have switched into his? That he’s been trapped in this painting and hidden under a cloth and in a dark room for four hundred years?”

Castiel walked back over to Dean and hugged his free arm, placing his chin on top of his shoulder.

“I don’t know,” Castiel said softly. “I’m not sure a switch that drastic is even possible. It was just a theory.”

“We have to get him out,” Dean said, his voice hard with determination.

Castiel pulled on his arm and forced him to turn away from the painting. His body turned, but his head and eyes didn’t. Castiel put a hand under his chin and forced him to look away.

“Hey. We don’t know for sure that’s what happened.”

“But—!”

“We’ll look into it,” Castiel said, keeping a firm hold on his chin. “I promise. But, it may not be true. Don’t get your hopes up about mounting some daring rescue mission. There’s still a lot we don’t know. Sam could be the mastermind after all.”

Dean shook his head, freeing himself from Cas’ grip. “No. No. This makes sense now. I know Sam. I _know_ my brother. He’s kind hearted and good. He wouldn’t have done this to me. I should have known better. Lucifer took over his body. He trapped both of us. It explains why Sam was willing to negotiate a peace after the battle.

“I told you Viridoctrins don’t do surrender. Not even when it makes sense. Not even when it’s the only thing to do. The fact he did makes no sense. But Lucifer—who was from Caelus—wouldn’t care about that, especially if he was acting under orders from our queen. She tried so hard to keep us from going to war; it looks like she devised a plan to end the war early by neutralizing me and turning ‘my brother’ into the scapegoat she needed to save face.”

Castiel stood in front of Dean, but the man seemed like he was very far away. He reached out tentatively and took his hand. Slowly, Dean’s eyes focused on the present again, and then zeroed in on Cas. He stared at him for a moment, and then pulled him into a bone-crushing hug.

“This is good, Cas,” Dean said. “I know it doesn’t look like it now, but this is good. This is good.”

Cas hugged Dean back, but he couldn’t share in Dean’s positivity. He already knew that Dean was planning a rescue for Sam. If that even was Sam in the painting. If he was even still alive. If it were possible for him, with Charlie’s help, to figure out how to switch Sam back into his body. He probably couldn’t do it while Lucifer was occupying it. He’d have to paint Lucifer into the painting as well. They’d have to step back into time with a dangerous madman who knew more about Art and its power than Cas ever would.

Cas held onto Dean tighter, scared that Dean was going to ask for the impossible, terrified that he was going to agree to try.

~~~

“Cas? You down here?”

“Back here!” Castiel answered Charlie.

He was in the hidden vault, back by the Lucifer Painting as they were calling it, and stretching a large canvas on three wooden stretcher bars. Over the past few days he’d been sneaking down the supplies he would need to recreate the painting. First it was paints and brushes, then a palette and some scrapers, and then the large canvas itself. Getting the stretcher bars down had been a little tricky since they couldn’t be folded up and stuck in a bag, but he’d carried down a set of stretcher bars leaving one behind at a time so that when he came back up it looked like he brought his supplies back up with him. It wasn’t unusual to see students carrying supplies around with them everywhere they went. One never knew when inspiration might strike. Charlie was bringing him the fourth bar he would need and an easel. He’d be able to get started on the recreation today.

The one thing he wouldn’t have would be better light. They had discussed bringing down lamps or work lights, but there were no plugs in the walls and they thought the electronics might be a little too suspicious. They did switch out the bulbs in the back room, which helped a little bit, but Cas was going to have to work with a serious handicap when it came to mixing colors and painting tiny details. Fortunately he still had some colors he’d mixed when he’d made his final project—and since it was the same room, the colors were mostly the same.

“Hey. Got the last bar,” Charlie announced as she stepped into the room and weaved through the maze of paintings they had scattered about the room for study.

“Thanks. I appreciate you skipping lunch today.”

“Not skipping. Just brought it with me.” She pulled a squashed sandwich out of her bag.

She sat cross-legged on the floor and pulled pieces off the sandwich and popped them into her mouth as she watched him work. Cas always thought it was strange that she never bit into her sandwiches, but he supposed people could enjoy food however they liked. Dean still railed against using utensils for most anything except soup.

Cas worked the canvas onto the last stretcher bar and pulled it taut. He checked over all the sides and made sure everything was tight and ready to go. Then he placed the large canvas on the small travel easel Charlie had brought. He stood back and looked at its blank surface. There was so much he could do with it. He could literally paint anything his imagination could come up with—and using the power of Art—he could potentially make it real. What if he made a monster and it somehow came back with him through an escape door? Or would the monster not be able to exist in reality? And for that matter…what was reality? What if he was simply living in the world create by someone else’s painting? What if he was hanging on a gallery wall in some museum in some place where that Artist thought that his life was reality?

Cas took a step back as his thoughts and the white field of the canvas made him dizzy. He moved to sit next to Charlie, his knees bent and arms resting on them. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall back.

“I don’t know what to do, Charlie,” he confessed. “I don’t know if attempting this is the right thing to do. So much could go wrong.”

“That’s true. It’s dangerous. And that’s more than reason enough not to do something. But, even though it feels scary, does it feel wrong?”

“What do you mean?” He accepted her proffered bag of chips and crunched into a barbeque flavored chip.

“I mean do you have the feeling that by doing this you’d be doing something wrong? Like morally. Or time-spacially or something.”

Castiel considered. “No…it doesn’t feel like that. If that is Sam in there and I could get him back in his body and into the real world, then I feel like that would actually be a rescue mission, you know? A good thing. The only thing that makes me nervous is that even though we have Dean’s word—we ourselves have no way of verifying that Campbell is Lucifer. He could be a totally innocent guy. Maybe his records are new because he’s in witness protection or something.”

“Becoming a famous Master of Art seems like a poor way to keep a low profile,” Charlie said with a laugh.

“That’s true. Probably not witness protection. But…what if Campbell is Campbell? He’s been a great mentor to me. We’ve even brushed along the edges of friendship. If I trap him in a painting…”

“Well, when it happens, you’ll know,” Charlie said. “When you’re—when you’re in there,” her voice suddenly turned quiet, “he’ll either act confused or he’ll reveal himself in some way. Then you can always bring him back.”

“But he won’t be in his body anymore. The point would be to make everyone revert back to their original bodies—but what if all I do is force Campbell out of his own body?”

“The symbols won’t let that happen,” Charlie said.

She set the remnants of her sandwich aside and dug into her bag again. She produced an old crumbling book and Cas almost reprimanded her for touching it while not using gloves, but he certainly had slipped up a couple of times too. She carefully opened the book to a page she had bookmarked and showed him a set of symbols he hadn’t seen before closely examining the tied man in the Lucifer Painting.

“Okay, so it took me a while to figure out what these meant because it was written so long ago that the spellings and syntax are all weird. But, I think I know why the most recent paintings we see have no symbols painted into them. I think it’s because he only painted them onto the subject. Or himself, I guess. He didn’t care about the status of the room or anything else—all he cared about was the body he was creating for himself so that was the only thing he needed to spell.

“I figured this out because the symbols we see on Lucifer in the painting, some of them require a corresponding symbol. They only work in pairs, but there’s no sign of the other symbol on the Lucifer Painting. I think it’s because it was painted onto the other subject. The one that he walked out of the painting in.”

“Okay. So, what do the paired symbols mean?”

“Well, pretty blatantly they mean to ‘exchange’ something. Swap, switch. I think your theory is right. I think Lucifer painted Sam and himself into the painting, and then used the symbols to dictate which body they would wind up in when they entered the painting.”

“So, if we use the same symbols, we can do it again. But, if Campbell is a real person, we’re just swapping him into the wrong body.”

“Ah, but see here.” Charlie turned the page. “We’ll use these symbols instead. Instead of exchanging bodies, these will put people into their true bodies. They essentially mean 'origin.' So, if Campbell is Campbell, when he enters the painting he’d stay in his own body since it is the one he originated in. But, if it’s Lucifer, he’ll go back into Lucifer’s body.”

Cas let out a little sigh of relief. “Well, that makes me feel a little better about the whole thing. Everyone will be in the body they rightfully belong in, whether or not we know who everybody is.”

“Exactly. There’s just one small catch…”

“Great. What’s that?”

“Not only do you have to paint the symbols into the painting, but you have to put the symbols on the people going into the painting.”

“What?”

“You’ll have to paint the symbol onto Campbell’s body before you enter the painting for it to work.”

“And how am I going to do that? We still haven’t even figured out how to get him in the painting if I’m the one who is painting it.”

“Well, we’ve still got time to research that. After all, you’ve got a five by three canvas you still have to paint in excruciating realism.”

Castiel sighed and looked back at the blank canvas. “Don’t remind me.”

~~~

Castiel flipped to a new page in his sketchbook and starting working on Campbell’s nose again. He didn’t think he was getting it quite right. If he was going to paint him into the recreation, he was going to have to do it from memory and his sketches alone. And they had to be accurate.

Campbell was in profile to him as he concentrated on a feathering technique that Castiel probably should have been paying attention to because he kind of sucked at feathering. He was getting a private lesson from a Master Artist, and here he was basically ignoring the man as he instructed Cas on what to do.

“Most people use their wrist to get the brush to move the way they want to. But with feathering I’ve found it’s better to control it with your fingers. People now are much better at feathering than even the old Masters. We all have strong fingers from so much typing and swiping and tapping and playing video games.” Campbell chuckled. “Who would have thought the digital revolution would have been good for art?”

“Yes,” Cas agreed absently. “Charlie’s skill with a tablet is amazing. It’s hard to tell it’s not a real painting.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Campbell said, his attention focusing on Cas. “Let me see what you’ve done.”

“What? Oh. I was just listening—!”

Campbell snatched his sketchbook out of his hands and looked at the first page. Then he flipped back through pages and pages and pages of sketches of himself. His face, his eyes, his hands, an arm and leg drawn around the margins. It must look like Cas was obsessed with him. Or crushing on him. Campbell looked up at him with a quirked eyebrow.

“This is quite a collection. I’ll admit I think the subject you’ve chosen is magnificent.”

Castiel laughed uneasily. “Yeah. Um. I know we don’t paint other Masters. Because. Well.” He pretended like he had to stop talking and swallowed, the way he’d used to do when he tried to talk about Art when the spell still worked on him.

Campbell nodded.

“But I saw you the other day. You were sitting in the square by the fountain made by Master Falcori, you know the one, right? With the birds and Pigmenta and, um.” Cas knew he was rambling. “I think the sun hit you just right. Something about the way it shined on the water and your…um, hair. And I just _needed_ to paint you. But I knew I couldn’t. So I sketched you. In pieces. So, you know, I wouldn’t—I mean I _wouldn’t_ do anything to you. But so if someone saw it they would know that I…wouldn’t try to…”

Campbell lowered his eyes and closed the sketchbook with a knowing smile on his lips. He approached Castiel and held the book out to him. Cas took it and then drew in a sharp breath when he realized how closely Campbell was standing next to him.

“You’re not the first student who’s needed to…‘ _paint’_ me.”

Cas swallowed.

“But you might be the first that I wanted to let try it.”

“Um…”

Campbell leaned over and put a hand on Castiel’s hip. His hair tickled Castiel’s cheek and he put his lips next to his ear.

“Let’s see how things stand after you’ve graduated though, hmm?”

Castiel couldn’t stop the shiver that passed through his body. Unwanted or not, Campbell’s voice had been laced with the promise of a pleasure Castiel might never recover from.

“Uh. Um. S-sure.”

Campbell straightened and patted Castiel’s cheek. “You’re cute, Cas. And not nearly as creepy as being crushed on by a teenager at my age. But, perhaps we can scale the sketching back a bit?”

Cas nodded dumbly.

“Alright then. Flip to a new page and take notes. I expect your next oil to have copious amounts of perfected feathering in it.”

“Y-yes, Master,” Cas said and flipped his sketchbook open to a new page.

Campbell chuckled. “You can definitely keep calling me ‘Master’ after you graduate.”

He gave him a wink and Cas blushed furiously. Regardless if he was a legit mentor or an evil madman or even his boyfriend’s brother, the guy was hot. Although it was annoying to still blush so easily at his age. At least Campbell hadn’t asked questions about why he was obsessively drawing images of him. Cas knew he'd gotten lucky that Campbell was so narcissistic and threw his full concentration to Campbell’s lesson.

~~~

Castiel could tell that he was blushing, _again_ , and he felt ridiculous for doing so at this particular moment. He and Dean had been intimate with each other for months now. He knew every inch of the man’s body and had taken him into his own body in virtually every way possible. He’d enjoyed it, even reveled in it. So, why was he blushing and nervously excited while watching Dean ride him? Possibly because he’d been expecting Dean to be wild and rough. Although while brash in nature, Cas had discovered Dean was quite gentle and tender when it came to sex. Not that they hadn’t had a few bouts of tearing sheets and headboard slamming, but typically their exploits could be described more as slow and deep than hard and fast.

But when Dean had asked to take a turn riding him, Cas had been expecting the general to treat him like a bucking bronco. In reality he was barely even moving up and down. Most of his movements were swiveling figure eights that drove Cas deeper into his body and stretched his hole wider. Cas was staring up at him, his fingers lock tightly on his hips. Dean was biting his lip, his eyes closed, he looked totally lost in his pleasure. Castiel couldn’t believe he was the cause of it, and Dean looked so beautiful and… _erotic_ that he was blushing with the force of his desire.

“Dean…”

His voice was gravelly on good days, and right now he barely sounded human. Dean’s eyes slit open and he looked down at Cas. His lips were parted as he panted softly. Castiel forgot what he was going to say. He pushed up onto his elbows and Dean leaned down to meet him. They kissed passionately, almost forgetting their lower halves, and yet it was more than enough for them both to tumble over the edge into ecstasy. They didn’t dare move away from each other even though it was harder to catch their breaths being bent over with their mouths pressed together.

Castiel had tried not to notice that their lovemaking had gotten more desperate and clingy over the past several weeks. The recreation of the Lucifer Painting was almost complete. Soon they would be mounting a rescue mission to save Sam—for better or worse. The painting might even be done by now, but Dean had gone to the campus again to see its progress. He’d had several harsh words for Cas because he hadn’t included Dean in the painting. Dean had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not be going into the painting without him, so Cas had had to find a way to work Dean into the painting. It had delayed its completion by two weeks, but now there was nothing left to do but for him and Charlie to double check all the symbols to make sure they were correct and properly woven into the painting.

Well, that and actually going into the painting, of course. After weeks of making and scrapping multiple plans for getting Campbell into the room, near the painting, and getting the symbol on him, they determined that Charlie was going to have to be a part of it. Castiel was going to have to be poised and ready to complete the last symbol that would pull Campbell, Dean, and himself into the painting. If Campbell—Lucifer—saw the painting from the doorway, he might run or hurt Cas before he could get close enough to it. He was going to have to stay by the painting, so Charlie would have to bring him down. They’d also made a stamp with the symbol needed to shove him back into his original body—if his current one wasn’t it—that Charlie could slap on him just before Cas completed the spell. There were a lot variables and unknowns involved with the plan that could make it all fall apart. All they could hope for was that Lucifer-Campbell would be caught so off guard that they’d have just a few moments to do what they needed to do before he reacted.

Castiel wasn’t happy to be including Charlie in the plan. If things went wrong, she would at least have plausible deniability if she wasn’t there. But if she was the one who brought Campbell to the vault—he’d know that she knew a whole lot more than she should about Art and who he really was. Or potentially wasn’t. If he didn’t wind up using Art to trap them in a prison of their own, he could have her expelled.

But that was all still a few days away. For now, he was content to pull Dean close to him and come down with him off their mutual high. Dean moved to the side and he slipped out of him. They both let out small aroused moans at the sensation, but they were too tired to do more than let their bodies continue to wind down. Dean lay half on top of him and Cas only had one free arm to tug the condom off with. He was polite enough not to comment on the fact that he could feel Dean’s body shaking slightly.

“Are you scared, Dean?” Well, he didn’t _directly_ mention the shaking.

“I’d be a fool not to be,” Dean responded gruffly. “I…” He tilted his head so that his cheek was more firmly pressed against Cas’ chest—and subsequently completely hid his face from Cas’ eyes. “I’ve never had this kind of happiness before. I liked the life I led and I was proud of my accomplishments and enjoyed my family and friends. But what I feel with you…I never had that with anyone then. The thought of facing Lucifer, not finding Sam, finding him but then losing him—I’m worried and scared about how all this might play out. But even all of that doesn’t compare to the fear I have of losing you. It makes me...not want to go through with it. It wants me to play it safe and just stay here and keep you and leave Lucifer alone.  But, I do want to make Lucifer pay for what he did to me. I want to save my brother so badly…but it’s hard to push past this doubt that risking you isn’t worth it.”

He exhaled in frustration and Cas hugged his shoulders with one arm, squeezing his deltoid with a hand.

“I understand, Dean. I do. Part of me wants to not do it either. I just keep thinking that having you is all I need. And you are…but I need you to be whole. And I think that knowing your brother might be trapped in that painting will haunt you for the rest of your life. Whether it’s Sam or not or whether we succeed or fail isn’t really the point. We have to try. Don’t we?”

Dean nodded. His arm tightened around Cas’ middle. “We do. I don’t think either of us could live with ourselves if we didn’t.”

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the night. Any more words they had to say would be trying to talk themselves out of doing it, and they had already made up their minds. So they held each other and kept their doubts to themselves.

~~~

“What is this?” Cas asked as he found himself blocked from entering the vault because all the paintings had been shoved up against the wall and door. Charlie was on her hands and knees, painting a large circular symbol on the stone floor. The easel with the recreated Lucifer Painting was set in the middle of it.

“It’s a binding spell,” Charlie said. “Just in case who pops out of the painting isn’t you guys. Whoever is inside this symbol will be stuck here unless I break the seal by washing part of the symbol away.”

“I see. But…what if it prevents us from going in the painting in the first place?”

“I won’t complete it until you’re in.”

“But if we come back out, it’ll be instantaneous for you. Will you have time?”

She shrugged. “We’ll see. But, it’s better to have some sort of safety measure in place. You know, just in case a crazed four hundred year old Master Artist comes back through.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean mumbled from behind Castiel.

“I’d rather insult you and be safe than risk unleashing evil on the world just to save your pride.”

Cas smiled. “That sounds fair.”

“Evil is already unleashed on the world,” Dean said darkly. “Lucifer is already walking around out there.”

“All the more reason to trap him in here if I can. Okay.” Charlie got to her feet. “That’s just about done. Now, help me put these paintings back in the crates and then stack them so that they block the view of the copy and the symbol on the floor. I’m going to try to get him to come in first so that I can stamp the back of his hand or neck and then just shove him forward into the symbol. But like I said, I don’t think you have to touch him or Dean when you complete the painting to make it work. In fact, I think he could be on the other side of the world and as long as you spelled him into the painting then he would go.”

“So why bother bringing him here in the first place?” Dean asked as he began to help getting the empty room paintings back into their crates. “Wouldn’t it be safer to not rouse any suspicions at all?”

“Yes, but what if he suddenly disappears in front of a large group of people? Also, we have to get the origin symbol on him before he goes. Cas has to see it’s there so he can finish the painting. If we try to time it, Cas could do it too soon or too late if Lucifer recognizes it and smudges it. It’ll just be easier, actually, to have him here when we do it.”

Castiel managed to snake his way into the room and walked around the symbol, careful not to step on it. It looked vaguely malevolent itself as in the spaces between a seven sided star were filled with twisted, tormented-looking symbols he’d never seen before. He tiptoed over to his painting, and examined it, yet again, for every tiny detail.

“Dean, come show me where the escape door is again.”

“Seriously?” Dean asked.

“He’s busy!” Charlie said. “As you should be. There’s like fifty of these things.”

“I need to know that he knows where the escape door is. If things go wrong in there, he needs to be able to get himself out. Or Sam. Or me if I’m incapacitated.”

Dean worked his way out of the small forest of paintings and stepped in the blank spaces of the symbol as he made his way over to Cas. He looked at the painting and then pointed to the small door that Cas had worked into the grout of the floor of the war room. The curlicue pattern was completed except for one stroke. It wouldn’t require an artistic skill or knowledge of the design to simply join the two ends of the lines together.

“Now, Lucifer may go for the paper on the table because that’s where he painted his escape door, but it won’t be there. So, he’ll be looking for ours. Try not to look at it or act like you’re trying not to look at it.”

“Don’t give that lecture to me,” Dean said with amusement. “You’re the one with all the nervous ticks.”

Charlie snorted. “He’s got ya there, Cas.”

Castiel grumbled, but had no legs to stand on to deny it.

“Does it even matter?” Dean asked. “You’ve painted Lucifer like he is in the original: he’s tied up. He won’t be able to move to use the escape door anyway.”

“In theory. We’ll just have to hope that Sam won’t be too disoriented to come with us.”

“I’ll grab him, you grab me, and we’re through the door.”

“It sounds easy when you put it that way, but I told you what it was like for me when I went through. I was completely disoriented and a little nauseated. It may take a few moments for us to recover and figure out where we are in the room.”

“Sam and I are used to being in battle. We can handle whatever gets thrown at us. Just trust me to take care of you, okay?”

Cas felt his heart speed up in his chest as he looked into Dean’s determined green eyes. He did feel safe knowing that Dean would be looking out for him. This man would be willing to die for him, to _kill_ for him. It was a rather heady thought.

“Hey, hey!” Charlie snapped her fingers in between them and they shook their heads, turning to look at her. “Not that I don’t appreciate the great epic romance going on here, but let’s hold off on the sappy moments until after we’ve saved the day, okay?”

Dean muttered something and quickly walked away to start putting the paintings into crates again. Cas smiled after him and then turned his eyes to Charlie.

“Sorry,” he said with a smile.

“No, you’re not. But I don’t blame you. I kind of wish I had someone to distract myself with. This is a little crazy, isn’t it?”

“Charlie,” Cas said, turning completely serious. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll figure something else out.”

“No. I want to do this. If this is the guy who did this to Dean—and that’s Dean’s brother in there—I want to help. This is a fricken awesome quest, Cas. Don’t try to cut me out of it.”

“You nerd. It’s not a quest.”

“Yeah, it totally is. We can be heroes, Cas.”

Cas gave her a weak smile and tried to draw on her optimism to bolster his trembling courage.

“Big damn heroes,” he quoted her third favorite TV show.

“Exactly.”

She stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “You can do this. We can do this. Because we’re a team. Team Free Will, right, Dean?” Charlie called over her shoulder.

“I regret ever saying that,” he said tonelessly.

Charlie grinned. “Alright. Let’s get these paintings organized. Then we’ll go over the plan one more time. And…I’ll…get Campbell here after classes are over. He always goes to his office on Friday nights.”

Castiel nodded. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

~~~

“Oh my Muses, why are we doing this?”

Dean shot Cas a dirty look, but he ignored it and dipped his brush in the paint laced with his own blood again. The bristles were already well covered, but he was petrified it would be too dry to make the final stroke when Charlie showed up and then Campbell-Lucifer would see them and they’d all be screwed. Dean had his hand on Cas’ shoulder just in case physical contact was needed. They’d debated about whether or not Dean should stay behind so that he could help protect Charlie, but they decided her seal on the floor would have to do. If Sam was in the painting, Dean might be the only person who could convince him to come through the escape door. Even if he was in the wrong body.

Castiel looked at the symbol on his hand, paranoid that it would get smudged. Technically he and Dean didn’t need the origin symbols, but they thought if consciousnesses were being swapped around in space and time and paint, it might be best to make sure everybody landed where they belonged.

Cas twitched toward the door. “Did you hear something?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I—”

He cut off as he heard Charlie’s loud laughter coming from the other room. It sounded like she was still by the stairs. Castiel shuffled closer to the painting and dipped his brush again. Dean’s fingers dug painfully into his left shoulder.

“It’s really awesome!” Charlie’s voice floated toward them. “I found it totally by mistake. Can you believe there might be paintings from undiscovered Masters down here? Do you think we’ll be on the news?”

“Maybe,” Campbell’s voice said, very, very close now. “But, let’s make sure they’re not actually a collection of junk that never got properly thrown away first, hmm?”

“No art is junk,” Charlie said. “Oh, it’s through here. A total secret door and everything. How cool is that?”

“Ah. Very cool.”

They heard footsteps in the room and could see the top of Campbell’s head as he walked by the stacked crates. He came around the corner and froze. Cas froze. Campbell’s eyes swept over the scene, shocked by what he saw. His eyes alighted on Dean. And he smiled.

“I knew it,” he chuckled softly.

Then Charlie grabbed his hand and slammed the stamp on the back of it. He jerked his hand back and looked at her in surprise. It was enough to disturb his balance so that when she pushed him forward he stumbled into the circle.

“Go!” Charlie yelled as she dived for the charcoal she’d left by the break in the symbol on the floor.

Castiel turned and put his brush to the canvas, finishing off the last symbol.

~~~

Castiel felt that nauseating sense of disorientation again. He’d painted himself to be as close to how he would be standing when he finished the last symbol to minimize the differences, but apparently the process itself was enough to make his brain swim dizzily. He put a hand out and leaned on the war room table. For a moment, he wondered if he’d come back alone because the room was so quiet. Then he looked at the door: the blonde man’s hands were tied to the doorknob. He was blinking rapidly.

“Dean?”

Castiel turned to see who had spoken. Campbell stood behind him and very close to him. Close enough to stab him or strangle him if he wanted to. In the back of his mind he realized he should have painted the man into a different corner of the room. But the voice that had come out of him had been different from the Campbell he knew. This voice was a little lower, a little rougher. Warmer. He wasn’t looking at Cas though. Cas turned more and saw Dean looking back at Campbell. The general looked completely in control of his faculties.

“Sam?” Dean’s voice was so hoarse the word was barely recognizable.

“D-Dean,” Campbell—Sam—said. “What’s going on? I…I feel like I’ve been asleep for…forever.”

Dean let out a small laugh and took a step forward. “Sam. Thanks the Muses and the Devil and whoever the fuck else wants credit for it. Are you okay?”

The brothers approached each other, but Cas heard something behind him. He turned back to the tied man—Lucifer—and saw that he had stretched his rope enough to reach a wooden figurine that had been set on the bookshelf next to the door. He had the tip of the horse’s nose held into the flame of a candle. Castiel was confused by what the man might be doing. Maybe he was trying to start a fire to kill them all. Or to use the smoldering wood to burn through his bindings. What he did was raise the statuette and then quickly move his arms in a pattern. The image of the burning tip remained in his vision just long enough for the symbol to take shape.

Castiel gasped at the impact against his chest and then grunted when his back slammed into the wall. He slid to the floor, clawing for air, unable to draw breath. Finally he managed get his wind back and sucked in a breath only to cough harshly, blood spraying the floor. Groans from nearby let him know that both Sam and Dean had been caught in the blast wave as well. Castiel looked around for the escape door. It was closest to Dean, but neither he nor Sam were near it. He looked up when he heard a wicked chuckle. Lucifer was shaking the ropes off his wrists.

“Well. It has been a long time since I have been caught off guard this badly,” Lucifer said as he snuffed out the candle on the bookshelf. “I suspected you knew a little more about Art than we had taught you, but I never would have guessed that you knew this much.”

He walked over to the matching bookshelf on the other side of the door and blew out the candle. The only light in the room now came from the window and the lone candle on the war room table.

“But, I bet there’s still a whole lot you don’t know,” Lucifer said. “Like, how you don’t even need paint or canvas if you really know what you’re doing.”

Lucifer traced a pattern in the air with the fading tip of the figurine. It was aimed at Sam and suddenly he screamed out in pain as several large cuts opened up on his body at once.

“Sam!” Dean yelled.

“Oh, I haven’t forgotten you, General,” Lucifer said and traced another pattern. Dean’s arms and legs snapped back on his body at unnatural angles. Cas screamed at the sight, but he was drowned out by Dean.

“Hmm,” Lucifer hummed disappointedly. “That should have snapped them clean off. I guess the light faded too much on the last line.” He tossed the figurine to the ground and walked over to the war room table. He looked at the paper, and then sighed dramatically.

“Of course. My door is gone. But yours has got to be in here somewhere. Won’t you tell me where it is?”

Castiel felt guilty from turning away from Dean, but he couldn’t look at him twisted so gruesomely and in so much pain. He looked up at Lucifer.

“I won’t. You kill us and you’ll be stuck here.”

Lucifer laughed and picked up a quill pen from the desk. Then he walked over to Sam and dipped the tip in one of his bleeding wounds. Sam moaned and tried to move away.

“Stop!” Cas shouted.

“Make me, little apprentice,” Lucifer said mildly. “Show me your power. Or perhaps I should show you mine.”

He stood across the room and began to draw in the air. Castiel watched in confusion. It looked like he might be pretending to draw something, but he was leaving no marks in the air or on any surface that he could see. Lucifer whispered something and Castiel gasped as he was flung up into the air. He collided with the ceiling and then was bounced off the wall before finally dropping heavily onto the floor. His head hit the stone floor with a sickening crack that was matched only by the queasiness in his stomach. He moaned and rolled part way onto his side. He raised a hand and tentatively felt the back of his head. A knot had already formed and when he pulled his hand back his fingers were covered in blood.

“You know that I can draw my own door, right?” Lucifer said and he began drawing in the air again, this time aimed toward the window. “I know the design. I use it almost every day. Life’s only fun if you fuck about with everything in it.”

Castiel’s insides withered as he realized that of course Lucifer was right. There was nothing stopping him from drawing his own escape door. It didn’t have to be a part of the original painting—that was merely a convenience, he realized.

“But you’re not in Sam’s body anymore,” Castiel said and struggled to sit up. His vision swam and he had to stop moving before he made himself throw up. He focused on collecting his thoughts instead. “You might return to where you were when this body entered the painting. In the past in the war room.”

“No, darling, the past is gone.” He continued to work the quill in the air. “It’s why it’s the past. It may return me to the spot where I entered the painting, but it will still be the present time. I’ll admit it may be difficult to reenter Occimundi without the proper paperwork, but you and I both know I can paint those into existence easily enough. I just need to make sure I keep you three in here until I get back to the vault and burn the damn thing. In case you were curious, burning a painting while someone is in it, does in fact kill them.”

Castiel looked down at the stone floor. His blood had fallen into several speckles that were quickly drying, but one or two droplets had enough in them that he knew there’d be just enough to finish the design on his escape door. He just had to find a way to get himself and Sam over to it.

“There we go,” Lucifer said, voice light and pleasant. He whispered a few words and the candle on the table flickered. Suddenly the room was plunged into near darkness as a thick, black curtain covered the window, blocking out all the sunlight. Cas started at the fabric’s sudden appearance. Lucifer laughed.

“Didn’t know we could do that, did you? Ah, Castiel…I could have taught you so much. You know, I was considering letting you in on the secret. Your curiosity and passion were interesting to me. Not only that, I wouldn’t have minded ‘ _painting’_ you either, if you catch my drift. So, I hope you understand that when I leave you in this dark room so that you’ll be unable to see to paint your way out of it, it’s not because I don’t like you. It’s just because you know too much. And you’ve seriously pissed me off. So…” he shrugged. “I have to kill you. Really, you brought this on yourself.”

Lucifer moved the candle closer to the blank sheet of paper.

“I just need to make my own door here, and then its lights out, my apprentice. You and the Winchesters will still be alive, of course. For a while. You won’t be able to leave the room though. I’ve already locked it. And good luck getting the escape design correctly placed on a door in the dark. Trust me, you won’t be able to do it. Now, I don’t know if you’ll be aware of the painting when it starts to burn. Maybe you’ll just fade away. Maybe you’ll feel it and will be burned alive. That of course is not something I could possibly know. Nor have I been able to ask anyone who’s suffered that fate. For your sake I hope it’s fast and painless. Though feeling their skin peel and flake away as their lungs are choked with toxic smoke is exactly what these two assholes deserve.”

Castiel looked around the room, desperately searching for something that might help him. He could certainly draw in the air, but he didn’t know what Lucifer was saying or doing to make his creations take on a physical form. He tried to remember any of the symbols Charlie and he had seen in the books, but there were so many and they were so complicated. Also, he still couldn’t use them in midair. He’d have to somehow put a symbol on Lucifer. But what? And how?

“I bet Dean has painted them as saints, hasn’t he?” Lucifer said, his hand flying rapidly over the paper as he sketched his door. “It’s easy to ignore ancient history in textbooks. We’re so far removed from it. Reading about General Winchester’s victories in battles doesn’t really mean much. Not until you realize that his people were imperialists. Colonialists. They claimed everything their feet touched as their own. They forced every human they came into contact with to convert to their ways or die.

“Queen Abaddon saw what the Viridoctrins were. She was married into the royal family. She was actually from Tartarus. But when her husband King Cain died—tragically in a hunting accident; I tell you, that boar is the prettiest beast I ever painted—she finally had the power she needed to rein them in. With a little help from yours truly, of course.”

“Y-you couldn’t possibly have cared about politics,” Castiel muttered. “I’ve known you long enough to know that you wouldn’t care what the Viridoctrins did.”

Lucifer laughed and looked over his shoulder at Cas. “That’s true. You do know me. Ah, I wish I could keep you. Hmm, maybe I could. Spell you into silence. Or…oh. I suppose I need a new body now. Yours is quite nice.”

Dean let out a small pained noise.

“You hush up,” Lucifer said to him. “Dead men don’t get opinions.”

With Lucifer’s eyes turned away, Castiel gathered up a few droplets of blood from the floor and with small movements began to paint a symbol onto his palm.

“So why did you help her?” Cas asked.

Lucifer glanced at him, but then returned to work on his door. “Because all those old books that I assume you’ve gotten your sticky little fingers on? They were hers. Or at least she found them in the lost Library of Vindex. She didn’t know what power they really contained, but she knew that Master Artists would want them. She found a kindred spirit in me and offered to share them with me in exchange for helping her get Viridoctrin under control. I knew leaving her in power might not be the best idea, but once I saw that I could achieve immortality through the power of Art, who cared? I would long outlive her influence.”

“Why did you keep using Sam’s form?” Cas asked, hoping to keep him talking for just long enough for him to finish his symbol. And perhaps to prevent Lucifer from finishing his door.

Lucifer shrugged. “He’s attractive. Pulls in the ladies and the gentlemen. Also, it was easier to look in a mirror and paint what I saw than try to remember what I used to look like. Plus if I were to use someone else’s image, I’d have to dispose of them in some way. Sam was already locked away in a painting. As long as I kept moving around, keeping the same face never made much of a difference. Especially since Masters never have their portraits done. Now. The invention of photography did make things a bit more interesting. But, since I’m taking on a new body now, I guess I still have a while before I have to worry about that catching up to me.”

Castiel shifted on the floor and Lucifer turned sharply to look at him.

“Up to something?”

“I just…I want to be near Dean. Please. If you’re going to trap us here until we die…”

“Well, not you. I’m going to have to paint you out so we can switch bodies. But I suppose there’s nothing wrong in letting you two snuggle until I get back. Nothing wrong, but it would bring me delight to know you’re both suffering.”

Lucifer pushed Castiel’s shoulder with his foot, shoving him away from Dean. He fell to the floor, gasping in pain. He must have several broken ribs from his collision with the wall earlier. However, shoving him away from Dean resulted in Castiel lying behind Lucifer. He wasn’t quite close enough to reach him, but all he had to do was inch forward a bit.

“I guess I should have figured out you’d started banging the guy, huh? You were obsessed with his painting. Probably jerked off to it every night while you worked on your copy.” Lucifer laughed. “Ah, I hope you at least got to taste the forbidden fruit a bit before the end. You’ll probably find your way over to him across the floor eventually. It’ll take a few days for me to get back. Ah. I’ll have to figure out what to do with Charlie when I get back. She must know what’s going on too. I wonder what she’ll do for the next few days. She’ll know something went wrong when you don’t come back. It’ll serve her right to stew a little.”

Castiel seized up with fear at the thought of what Lucifer might do to Charlie. It made everything finally sink in. He was going to be trapped in the dark with Sam and Dean who were probably dying or dead from their injuries. And then he was going to be pulled away from them and forced into a different body and trapped inside a painting for eternity. If Lucifer didn’t decide to burn him and be done with it. His whole body shook and yet he felt paralyzed. He was so useless. He wasn’t a hero. He had no right going on any quests. He’d brought ruin to them. He saw Lucifer bend over the table again, his arm slowing down as he scratched at the paper. He was probably done with his door and curlicue design. Just a few more pen marks and it’d all be over.

His eyes moved to try to find Dean in the dark corner he’d last seen him in. What he saw was the symbol on his hand. The blood was still just wet enough that it might work. He bit back a groan of pain as he pulled himself toward Lucifer. Then he stretched out his hand and reached under Lucifer’s pants leg. He pressed the symbol against Lucifer’s skin. He waited for the man to turn around and kick him. To start making another obnoxious speech about how cute Cas was for trying. He waited for him to scream or start cursing him or something. But the man did nothing. The scratching of the quill had stopped as well. The only sounds in the room were Dean’s soft whimpers and a gurgling breathing sound which must be Sam.

Castiel struggled to get to his feet, holding his ribs with one arm and using the other to grab the table and use it as a brace. He leaned heavily on the table for a long moment to catch his breath, and then moved around to look at Lucifer. He was frozen.

Lucifer stood at the table, bent over it as his hand was in the process of drawing the very last line of his escape design. It was _just_ not completed though. The candle flickered by his hand. He looked at Lucifer’s face. His eyes were still focused down, his lips were curved around a word, but Castiel didn’t know what he’d been about to say. His hair, his clothes, the small bead of sweat on his brow, they looked fake with their stillness. He was frozen.

Just what the symbol Cas had put on Lucifer’s leg had the power to do. Cas exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. He was still shaking with fear. Fear for his life, for Dean’s—Cas’ eyes snapped open.

He didn’t have time for this. Sam and Dean were badly hurt. Possibly fatally wounded. He had to get them out of the painting. Maybe modern medicine would be able to help them. And Charlie would be worried. And he didn’t want to spend another moment in Lucifer’s presence.

Cas struggled away from the table and fell to his knees near Sam. He winced as the hard stone jarred his kneecaps.

“Sam…Sam?”

“Who—who are you?”

“I’m a friend of your brother’s. I’m going to get us out of here. Can you stand?”

Sam started to move and then keened in pain induced misery.

“S-Sammy…” Dean’s voice gasped from his dark corner.

“It’s okay, Dean,” Cas said. “I’m going to get us out. I’ll get us help. Sam, please, you have to help me. I don’t think I can carry you. We have to get over by Dean.”

The man moved again, sucking in sharp breaths as he managed to get up to his knees. Castiel wrapped his other arm around Sam and let him lean his weight against him. They shuffled agonizingly slowly across the floor. The both kept looking at Lucifer, expecting him to burst into movement and make more symbols that would shred them apart. They made it most of the way to Dean’s side, but then Sam jerked violently and coughed up blood. He fell to the floor.

“Sam!”

“W-what’s happening?” Dean rasped.

“Nothing, it’s okay. Nothing. Dean, give me your hand.”

Dean attempted to move and then let out a soft cry. “I c-can’t. I can’t, Cas. Can’t move. I can’t…”

“It’s okay. I’ll do it for you. It’s going to hurt, but you have to be touching Sam, okay?”

“O—kay,” Dean bit out.

Castiel reached for Dean’s arm and wasn’t sure what way he should bend it. Either way it looked like it was going to twist horribly wrong.

“Okay, I’m going to have to—”

“Just do it,” Dean ground out through clenched teeth.

Castiel grabbed his wrist and pulled. Dean screamed and Castiel wanted to cover his ears. He fought back the urge to cry and put Dean’s hand in Sam’s. Sam’s fingers curled loosely around Dean’s.

“That’s it. Hold onto each other. We’ll get out of here, and then we’ll get you some help. I know the doctors can help. We’ll get there in time. And if not…I’ll paint you perfect again. I promise. You’ll be whole.”

Castiel crawled over to the escape door. He put a hand on Dean’s ankle and reached out to finish the last stroke. The blood on his finger was dry.

“No, please, come on.”

Castiel dropped his head, too tired to turn around to gather some blood from Sam’s body. Too weak to break his own skin. He gave into the sobs. Tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto the floor. He opened his eyes and saw the droplets reflecting with candle glow. He gathered the wetness on his finger, and then used the pale pink of his rehydrated blood to complete the last line of the escape door.

~~~

Castiel felt nauseated again. Though it was a different kind of nausea from the one that had resulted from his head wound. It was the somewhat familiar and disorienting sensation he associated with traveling through paintings.

“Oh, my Muses!”

That was Charlie.

“Cas! Are you okay? Are you all okay? Why are you on the floor? Wait, is everyone who they say they are? Can I break the seal?”

“Call an ambulance,” Cas said.

“What? Why?”

“Just call an—!” Cas shouted as he sat up and glared at her. He cut off as he realized that he moved easily and with no pain. He put a hand to his ribs and pushed on them. No pain. He put a hand to his head, no lump. When he pulled his fingers away they were clean of blood. He looked at where Sam and Dean were slowly and carefully sitting up. Sam’s wounds were gone and Dean’s limbs were in proper alignment. Dean carefully moved an arm, and then sighed in relief.

“We’re okay…?” he asked, seemingly as confused as Cas.

Then Cas remembered his momentary freak out the first time he’d discovered that he’d essentially been disintegrated and reassembled as he had passed through the painting. He supposed teleportation wasn’t so bad after all if it could put you back together the way you were supposed to be.

“Come on, what happened?!” Charlie cried. “You’re killing me here. Were you guys not okay?”

“No, we weren’t,” Cas said. “Lucifer had…” Cas turned suddenly to look at the painting. Most of the room was no longer visible as the one candle put off just enough light to see part of Lucifer’s body and his hand on the table. His back was facing them. He was frozen in the dark room, unable to see out of the painting. But time wasn’t frozen. Castiel hadn’t included those on his version. He had no idea what would happen to a living person stuck in a painting that had no time lock on it.

“Can I let you guys out? I need to know what happened! Is this Sam?”

Sam turned when he heard his name. He blinked confusedly at her. “I’m Sam.”

Charlie’s face lit up. “It worked! Right? It worked? Please tell me it worked!”

Dean got to his feet and helped Sam to his. “It worked.”

Cas smiled tearfully as he watched the brothers embrace.

“Dean…I’m…I’m a little confused. What’s going on?” Sam asked.

Dean pulled back and couldn’t contain his glad laughter. “It’s a long story, Sammy. And one I’ll be happy to tell you. But first…” Dean turned to Cas and held out his hands. Cas took them and was a little startled by the force with which Dean pulled him up and into his arms. “Thank you, Cas. You’ve done so much for us. For me. I’ll never be able to repay you.”

Castiel pulled back so that he could look Dean in the eye. “There’s no debt, Dean. Nothing to repay. I love you. I’d do anything for you.”

Dean nodded, still smiling. Then he leaned forward and kissed him. “No debt,” he agreed. “Just us.”

They kissed again, and before Cas could pull back, Dean deepened it. And then Cas was lost. His hands were in Dean’s hair and twisting in his shirt. He opened himself to Dean and wanted nothing more than to melt into him.

“Hey, hey!” Charlie called out. “You still haven’t given me the all clear on the seal!”

Cas pulled back, but kept his arms around Dean. “We’re here. It’s us. We’re all here and Lucifer…” he looked back at the painting. “Lucifer is in there. And he’s not getting out.”

Charlie squealed and smudged a break in the symbol with her foot. Then she ran to Cas and Dean and gave them a hug before turning to Sam and hugging him too. He stood stock still, bewildered by the strange woman embracing him.

“This is so weird!” Charlie said. “I’m like, hugging Master Campbell.”

“Who?” Sam asked.

Dean clapped a hand on his brother’s stiff shoulder. “Sammy, you’re not going to believe this. But you’re living in the future now.”

“What? Dean, is this some sort of elaborate joke? Did you drug me? I’ve been passed out for…freaking years it feels like. Who are these people? Where are we? And why are these pants so tight?”

Everyone laughed, except Sam who just frowned at them.

“Brother,” Dean said with a gleam in his eye. “Let me paint you a picture.”


	6. Epilogue: Thirty-Five Years Later

 

Castiel settled his white sash over his blue robe. It was his fifth year as Head Master of the International Academy of Art, and greeting the new students never got old. Each quarter he would sneak up behind them after they had been dropped off by the bus—just like Master Shurley had done all those years ago. And just like Cas and his classmates had, everyone started violently and rushed to bow or show deference in some way. It was highly amusing. As was watching them all trip over Aporia’s step. Every now and then one of them caught it. He would pay that student extra close attention over the years.

The newest batch of students would be finishing their first dinner about now. Castiel had volunteered to take them on the tour of the galleries. He hadn’t been in a while, and he was longing to see the works of the great Masters of old (and new) again.

The students seemed appalled that they were going to have to be in the presence of the Head Master again for a private tour. They all checked themselves for crumbs and tried to stand up straight and look thoughtful as he gave them a few boring details about the architecture of the building. As they were trekking through the first courtyard, a young student—very young, probably no more than fifteen—addressed him with a very serious expression on her face.

“Master Novak?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Are you sure you’re okay to take us?”

“Okay?”

“I heard there are a lot of stairs. And I mean, you’re…” She trailed off.

“How old do you think I am?” Castiel asked.

The girl’s face turned red. “I-I don’t know. B-but…my grandpa is the only person I know with white hair. And he’s very old.”

“Hmm.” Castiel self-consciously patted his head. “I’ll be fine, I assure you.”

Unlike his own tour of the galleries, Castiel allowed the students to take their time in each one. He meandered around, enjoying the looks of awe and wonder on their faces as they saw pieces in person that they had only ever seen in textbooks. He answered their questions and asked them questions in turn to gauge their receptiveness and imagination. He only had to herd them up and move them along from the Masters gallery, but he understood that. It was possible to spend weeks perusing the art in that room and still not see everything. The group seemed very unimpressed with the Art gallery, as expected. There were new pieces in the room. As much as Castiel had lobbied the other Masters of his generation to stop using the power of Art (what little they knew about it), they couldn’t be persuaded. He supposed tying peace and understanding to political dealings was harmless enough, but all of the old texts from before the Age of Enlightenment had been locked away in the hidden vault. Castiel hadn’t made a spelled painting in decades.

He shook off the unpleasantness he felt when he thought about how dangerous Art could be in the wrong hands, and allowed the joy of entering the Hall of Portraits to fill his senses. This was his favorite gallery, and contained some of his favorite portraits. The students whispered to each other excitedly as they pointed to various familiar works and “Oo-ed” over new ones.

Castiel walked over the thick red carpet with his hands behind his back. He stopped at the portrait of a young woman with a dog almost as big as she was. He had never quite mastered the technique of feathering to make fur look quite right, and he admired the artist’s skill in the work in front of him.

“Master Novak?”

Castiel turned to the student who stood looking at the next painting over. He moved to join him.

“Yes?”

“I thought this was the Hall of Portraits.”

“It is.”

“But…this isn’t a portrait. It’s just a room.”

“Ah…so it is. Remind me again which one this is. I can’t read the labels quite so well anymore.”

“Um…it says _The Viridoctrin General_.” The kid looked at the painting again. “Is he hidden somewhere?” The student leaned side to side like he could see around objects in the room.

“Maybe he got bored and left,” Castiel suggested.

The student laughed. “Yeah. I would too if I had to stand in the same place and look at the same things all the time.”

Castiel smiled and let his eyes sweep over the masterfully painted room. Master Lucifer really had been quite talented.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Master Novak!”

The student who called his name was shushed by everyone else, but Castiel amiably walked down the hall to join her in front of one of the newer additions to the Hall.

“Master Novak, is this one really yours? I’ve studied your works and your career and I thought I knew all of your paintings. But I’ve never seen this one nor have I heard the title _The Devil in Purgatory_.”

Castiel looked at the painting. The large canvas was mostly black. Only a small section had any color to it, which depicted a candle burned down to a nub and a liver-spotted hand clutching an old-fashioned quill pen.

“Yes,” Castiel said. “This is one of mine. But I’ve never released it to the public.”

“Why not? It’s amazing. The subtlety and the curiosity it induces—who does the hand belong to? Why did he let the light burn so low? I love it. Why wouldn’t you release it?”

“It’s not finished yet,” Castiel said. “I can’t seem to be done with it. I still keep changing it, you see.”

He could tell the kid was shocked that a Master would show doubt in his work. Or maybe it was the idea of altering what she already thought was a perfect piece.

“You’ll see,” Castiel said. “Every artist has a piece they just can’t let go of—for better or worse.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The students moved as a group through the remaining portraits, talking quietly and taking notes for their potential final project ideas.

“Master Novak?”

“Yes?”

“Are all the portraits here done in oil? Can portraits only be done in oil? And not watercolor or digital media?”

“Of course portraits can be done in any medium. And any you make should be done in the medium that you feel allows you to express yourself best. However, the Masters of the past, and to some extent the present, are a bit old-fashioned I’ll admit. Most of the paintings here are done in oils. But, this one over here, one of our newer ones--it’s only about thirty-two or thirty-three years old--it was done in digital paint with a tablet and a stylus.”

“Really?” someone asked incredulously and stepped closer to the painting. "It looks so real…”

“It is real, doofus,” another said. “It’s by Charlie Bradbury. He’s the greatest digital artist that ever lived even though he was never awarded the status of Master.”

“Charlie Bradbury isn’t a man,” a boy joined in, rolling his eyes. “It’s Celeste Middleton’s pseudonym.”

“Why would an artist use a pseudonym?”

“Because she wasn’t a Master so she didn’t want to be known only for art.”

“That’s stupid.”

“Children,” Castiel said softly.

The group ducked their heads and went quiet.

“Alright. It’s time we moved on for today. You’ve all had very long days. I’ll take you back to the dining hall so that you can get your schedules and get settled into your rooms. Classes start very early.”

“Yes, Master,” they murmured and started to file out of the room.

Castiel paused to look at Charlie’s painting. He adored it. It was more a candid image of two people smiling, overwhelmed with joy and happiness, than a true portrait. But it was the most beautiful work he’d ever seen. He glanced down at the placard.

_The Marriage of the Painter and the Soldier, 1081 of the Common Era, Apprentice Charlie Bradbury_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_ _


End file.
